Mary
by 4give4get
Summary: Mary Bennet. Plain, obscure, and never fully understood. The story of the third Bennet daughter, who is not beautiful or charming but rather lone and solitary. And who is this visitor in Hertfordshire? Post-Pride and Prejudice. MaryxOC
1. Chapter 1

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Mary BennetxOC**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Hi, plox read. Maybe not your average Jane Austen fic.**

_Chapter One…_

It is a fact universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

Dire, _dire _want, according to Mary Bennet.

Yes, you have heard me correctly—Mary Bennet. I have said Mary Bennet (and do mean Mary Bennet), for she is the heroine _this _time around. Not Jane, whose beauty is conclusively beyond all comparison? Not Elizabeth, whose charm is indisputably beyond measure? No. Their stories have been told.

You may wonder, will Mary Bennet's story be anything like that of her elder sisters? And I shall allow this much of foreshadowing: No. Mary Bennet has little to compare within herself with the disposition of Jane and Elizabeth. Jane was a favored child amongst her mother, for she was the most beautiful. Elizabeth had been the favored child amongst her father, for she understood him best. Mrs. Bennet still doted upon the two younger ones, Kitty and Lydia and favored them very well, certainly.

Which left plain, obscure, demure, far-too-serious, Mary. Mary was the least beautiful of all four of her sisters. She did not even possess the remarkable traits Lizzy possessed, to be so charming that everyone in her company seldom noticed she wasn't beautiful.

What is Mary's disposition then? Smart. Perhaps even pompous some of the time (that much she will allow). Grave. She knew from a very early age that she did not carry many agreeable traits and would likely never marry. As a girl, she tried. Perhaps if she could not be beautiful or charming then she could learn to play the pianoforte with practice. And practice she did. Not that it did her very much good at all.

She could remember the face of her elder sister, Elizabeth as she finished her second piece at Mr. Bingley's ball at Netherfield. She felt embarrassed for her. Mary did not feel self-conscious after that, but only angry. How dare Elizabeth pity her! She did not want any such thing as pity! Mary knew deep inside that she, herself was very much the stronger of the two at heart and could endure more dislike and even hate. It was true. Could Elizabeth really step through her whole life and have everyone she meets have the edges of their mouths all turn downward in distaste as soon as she entered the room?

Mary did not think so. And Mary had been living exactly as such for all eighteen years of her life. So what made Elizabeth think she needed her pity? Honestly, the more friendless and alone she became, the more Mary found she could respect herself.

_I am not as everyone else,_ she simply thought, and gave up on the whole idea of ever fitting into the society in which she had been born. Mary read often. There was not a very large library at Longbourn, so she knew surprisingly little of literature than one might imagine for someone who loved to read as she did. She read and reread _Gulliver's Travels,_ the copy having been Mr. Bennet's from his childhood.

Mary dreamed of her own imaginary travels. _I should like very much to go to Japan and India. And even the make-believe places like Laputa and the Country of the Houyhnhnms and Lilliput where there are the six-inch tall people. Everywhere, I suppose._ Of course, these feelings were never shared.

She knew Mr. Bennet would have rather preferred Lizzy read and kept the copy (her being is favorite daughter) but Mary had never seen her sister so much as open the cover page to the book she so treasured. Her father said she may keep the book, and she hugged him over and over. Carefully, in her best hand, Mary signed her name, "Mary Bennet" under where her father had signed his own name years earlier.

Mary received other books for various birthday and Christmas gifts. Indeed, she seldom received a single gift that was _not _a book, though that pleased her fine. Mary did not dwell on ribbons or lace like most other girls. (As much as Mrs. Bennet had attempted to spark an interest in her third daughter for such things by way of gifts.)

Her own personal library grew. _The Mysteries of Udolpho. The Italian._ By Ann Radcliff.She kept a book containing each and every play written by Shakespeare, although she read them only to question their veracity. The books she received as gifts from her family consisted mostly of novels (which she did not enjoy any less than any other genre, mind.) _Camilla. Evelina. Cecilia._ All by Fanny Burney. Or _The Sorrows of a Young Werther,_ by Goethe.

But when Mary _did _leave the confinement of her own yard to accompany her sisters or mother to Meryton, she spent what little pocket money she had on titles of a different sort. She saved for three months to purchase _A Critique of Pure Reason, _by Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher.

Mary found it fascinating. It questioned the very existence of the world, of the universe and of God, Himself. How many other books did such? She kept it hidden beneath her bed, knowing the possession of such a book is not to be expected for a young lady, and all that young ladies were _supposed _to be.

There was a time when Mary was polishing the vase her mother kept on the landing of the staircase on a simple end table when she heard a shriek coming from her chamber. Carefully, for our heroine, Mary never allows her famous (or perhaps even infamous) calm demeanor to fade away, she set down the vase and hurried in to her room. She turned the doorknob distinctly and peered inside.

"Mrs. Hall," she said, grave as ever, "What ever is the matter?"

Mrs. Hall, the housekeeper stood from her kneeled position and waved a book in Mary's face, "Miss! This book has all sorts of evil mentioned! Now, I don't mind all of this complex blabber on space and time (a ruddy waste of time if you ask me), but no God? This is un-Christian, and heathen and you had better believe I am showing this directly to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hall!" Mary cried, trying to pry _A Critique of Pure Reason _from her hands, "Kant only states that the propositions of God are valuable to our moral interest, that if people believe in such a thing they'll do good. He does not criticize religion, but only looks at it from a scientific point of view."

"Heathen!" was all the woman could spurt, "Un-Christian and I will not stand for it!"

"If you do not like what you have read it is because you have a narrow mind and cannot allow to accept new ideas," Mary told her calmly, "You (and others like you) disgust me above all others and I would appreciate it greatly if you never spoke another word to me as long as I live. I shall never remember you, nor this house, nor this family with happiness, and if I should by some stroke of luck receive the chance to leave it all behind forever, I shall take it with both hands and never look back. Of _that,_ madam, you may be sure."

Mary's statement had such an impact on the woman that her fingers loosened enough on the book and it was pulled from her grasp. Mary turned on her heel and disappeared down the stairs. She proceeded to hide the book in the cellar and luckily, Mrs. Hall was so disturbed by her that she never spoke another word to her. She would not even look in her direction. If she came within the same vicinity as Mary, she would stiffen up immediately and act as though she were walking on eggshells. And she would never, _never _allow to be alone in a room with her. And the entire family remained ignorant to any change in the household at Longbourn.

Mary Bennet continued to watch her family with a keen, precise eye. Jane fell in love with Bingley. And then he broke her heart upon his removal of Netherfield. Lizzy went through more than one trying matter herself, although both elder girls considered their third sister far too stupid to notice anything. The two younger girls just flirted with officers all day. Mr. Bennet attended his work as always and Mrs. Bennet continued being her usual self while vehemently objecting to Lizzy's refusing of Mr. Collin's proposal of marriage, and how the Lucas's were plotting to have Longbourn as soon as Mr. Bennet had died. Mary sat in her chamber for much of these days, reading and thinking and silently listening to all that was taking place.

According to her, Jane was so weak that Mary was ashamed to call her any sister of hers. Weak was one thing Mary was not. Jane was innocent and ignorant and had the perception equal to that of a five-year-old child's. _Is Jane really so kind and unassuming, or is she just plain stupid?_ She wondered. To always assume the worst, is not correct, but one must know that there truly are bad, evil, malicious people in the world. Jane did not. Also, having her heart broken so easily by Bingley. He is just one person! She may love him, but does she really disrespect herself so little to wallow like such and not see that the world does not revolve around him (not mentioning that is would likely even be a better place with his absence.)?

Therefore, Jane was ignorant and weak.

Lizzy was rather self-absorbed. Not selfish, but she honestly didn't notice much besides her own feelings and Jane's. Didn't she know how many other people there were in the world? And that her every action influenced them all, not just Jane and herself? A narrow margin of thinking, Mary could forgive however, and managed not to be so annoyed at Lizzy.

Kitty and Lydia came the closest to ever loving Mary. The three girls had an odd sort of understanding. Their ability not to judge each other led them to have an actual existing friendship. Mary did not approve of their vanity or their boldness, but never judged them as everyone else did. Kitty and Lydia did not care for her graveness or her strange taste in books, but they never judged her as everyone else did. And a friendship (however loose it may be) did take place.

For as long as Mary could remember, she had always wanted to attention of her father. He was a smart, sensible man, practical in all ways. He was not fickle, he was not stupid, and he had a fairly open mind. He was the one person in the Bennet family Mary found she could respect. He would have little to nothing to do with Mary, however. Mary quickly mended her ways and made sure she never cared what another soul thought of her again. If she did, it would just hurt too much. No one liked Mary Bennet. Why should her father be any different? So, in the beginning she may have pined for his affection. Well, that is no more.

The only person Mary disliked more than Jane was her mother, Mrs. Bennet. She was talkative and about as shallow as her teacup. She saw no importance in things that actually mattered and made big fusses of little things. Mary saw her as annoying and useless.

As soon as Lydia left for Brighton, Kitty began confiding in Mary more, seeing as her closest sister and friend had left. The two girls were close, but still had their differences. Mary listened to her speak of officers and how envious she was of Lydia, while Kitty listened to her tell of her opinions and ideas. Kitty let Mary read each letter from Lydia, and they both replied together. (Mary wrote, for she had the neater hand.)

"You must write saying that she must describe in more detail what it is to have an affair with someone," Kitty complained, as she paced back and forth through Mary's chamber. Mary calmly sat at her writing desk, penning a letter to their sister in Brighton.

"You mean her and Wickham?" Mary questioned, lifting the pen off of the paper.

"Of course I mean Wickham!" Kitty exclaimed, throwing her hands up, "Who else would she have an affair with?"

"It is not that, Kitty," she responded, turning to face her on her chair, "What is between her and Wickham would not quite be considered an affair. An affair is having a sexual relationship with someone in which you are not married to."

"And she is not married to him," Kitty pointed out.

"But she has not done such things with him, an acknowledgement of affection is hardly a sexual relationship," Mary countered, "But I know what you meant, I shall ask her for a more descript recollection, sister."

"Ask if she will elope with him!" Kitty enthused.

"I shall; though we'd best advise that she doesn't, for she may not be happy with him."

"Why ever not?"

"She is young," Mary sighed, beginning to write again, "Barely sixteen. At sixteen years old, you do not know it but you are very, very young. And while you are still considered young you must allow that a great amount of change in your disposition will occur before you are a full adult and therefore tying yourself to someone who fit your former disposition will be unfortunate and miserable. Lydia has yet to grow up before she should consider marrying."

"You may write that, but she will not listen. I dare say she won't even bother reading it, but just skip on to the next part," Kitty advised, "She does not listen to anyone, much less when you preach at her."

"I do not preach _at _her," Mary corrected, "I only give advice. And you are right—she will not read it. Whether or not she takes my advice is up to her. I shall write it for Lydia's sake, however. At least I can say that I did my part."

And Lydia obviously did not read Mary's advice. Or if she did, she didn't take it to heart. News of Lydia's elopement was all over Hertfordshire so quickly it was even rather astonishing.

"What was she thinking?" asked Mary to Kitty in the privacy of her chamber, "That no one would notice until she wrote to the family after her marriage when she would be able to sign it, "Mrs. Wickham"? That is so very thoughtless of her!"

"Lydia has always been thoughtless," Kitty told her, "And she shall be fine. She may have ruined the chances of us getting married now, since we did not make wealthy suitors before this happened as our elder sisters did, nor will we not be considered virtuous by anyone else who comes along. But I do not worry for her."

"Nor do I," Mary admitted, "Lydia is far stronger than Lizzy or Jane. She would do well on her own if she must."

"She's only vain."

"And you are not?"

News of the patched up marriage soon reached them and that Lydia would soon be visiting. Mary was happy to hear of this. After all, who did care if it was an undesirable match and it did ruin the family? Her sister's stupidity was not her own. Thankfully. But Mary still loved Lydia far more than Lizzy or Jane. Since they judged her, she did the same. It was only her two younger sisters she had any sort of feelings for.

After she and Wickham had left for his commission in the North, Bingley and Darcy came around. Mary only observed as both her elder sisters became engaged to be married. She offered them both her congratulations, but honestly cared little. Bingley was a stupid man. He was only kind because he had not the brain to be anything otherwise. Mary had no overall opinion of him.

Darcy was indifferent. Mary did not find his mind inferior, but did find his character and tone of voice to be false. Perhaps around Lizzy this was different. Mary still did not care much for him.

"…and Mary may use the library at Netherfield," Jane was saying, Mary suddenly paying attention at the mention of her name, "Would you like that?"

"I should enjoy that very much, dear sister," Mary said calmly, "I am sure there must be a wide selection and I will spend many enjoyable hours there."

There. Mary said one of the first pleasing things in her life. You see, Mary did not care to please. People could like her, or dislike her, it was all the same. She would not bend herself to their liking. But suddenly _this _came out of her mouth. It shocked her and made her feel uncomfortable to speak anymore for the rest of the week.

Soon both Lizzy and Jane were married and Lizzy had been taken all the way to Pemberly by Darcy. The house felt oddly empty, with only two daughters remaining. Within the month came Mary's nineteenth birthday. Mrs. Bennet to be reminded of the day by Kitty and Mary's favorite dish was prepared for supper. Her father presented her his gift of a book with a satin, ebony ribbon tied around it. Mary pulled the ribbon out of its silky bow and studied the book's cover.

_The Castle of Otranto,_ by Horace Walpole. She kissed and thanked Mr. Bennet for the lovely gift and eagerly set to flipping through the pages. From what she could tell it was a gothic novel. Kitty gave her a lacy petticoat that she'd sewn herself, and Mary kissed and thanked her for that as well.

Later that night, she sat up reading her newest book and admiring the ribbon. Mary found most ribbons (in their frilly lacy way) horribly ugly and overdone. But not this one. Somehow, this ribbon appeared elegant and simple and a shiny color of black, and nor did she mind its futility. She tied it around her neck each morning from then on.

The following day, letters came to Longbourn with her name on them. All four letters, to be exact, had "Miss Mary Bennet" written in three different hands. Mary opened the first one. It was signed E. Darcy. Lizzy wished her a happy birthday and that she missed her beyond words. (This, Mary did not believe for an instant.) Underneath the letter was a small package which unwrapped revealed a one-ounce vial of perfume.

Mary had never worn perfume in her life and nor did she ever plan to do so. The vial was a pretty pale pink colored glass and a carved in pretty swirls and patterns. The stopper stuck in the top was glass also (though not pink) and quite beautifully artistic as well, taking the shape of a rose.

Lifting it to her nose, she realized it was rose-scented. No, Mary would not wear anything like it, but was more than content to keep it in her chamber for the vial was so beautiful and delicate-looking.

The second letter was signed J. Bingley. It's contents were pretty much the same as its predecessor. Although, at the end it did mention something about how delightful their new house was as compared to Netherfield. Within her package, Mary realized how much better Jane knew her than Elizabeth. In the package was a tiny book of poetry, no bigger than her hand. Mary liked its smallness.

On the first page:

"And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time" by William Blake.

And did those feet in ancient time,

Walk upon England's mountains green:

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England's pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine ,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;

Bring me my Arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England's green & pleasant Land.

The other two letters were from her aunt and uncle Gardiner and Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Mary wondered what little much other people had to do if they had time to just write such letters to a girl they only pretended not to dislike.

On a day a fortnight later, to escape Mrs. Bennet Mary sat in the cellar and read that infamous copy of _A Critique of Pure Reason_. Kitty was currently visiting Pemberly (Mary had not been invited, not that she expected such a thing as an invitation, and nor would she accept one.) and the only one Mrs. Bennet had to rant to was Mary. Well, not if she couldn't find her—Mary was hiding.

She heard footsteps on the cellar stairs and froze in fear of it being her mother discovering her hiding place. The cellar was not large and had literally no corner or nook to duck into and hide further. It was Mrs. Hall. She clomped her way down into the cellar and saw the one person she feared most (Mary Bennet) and her face went even paler when she realized the book she held in her hands.

"Mrs. Bennet!" the woman cried out, turning to run back up the stairs, "Oh! Mrs. Bennet! This you ought to see!"

Mrs. Bennet hurried in a way that she could down into the cellar as Mrs. Hall was quickly retreating. Mary had nowhere to run.

"Mary!" she exclaimed, "Now what are you doing down here, I've been looking for you—what's this book you've got?"

"A book," she said, purposely being vague.

Mrs. Bennet wrenched it from her hands and she knew it all over. Mrs. Hall joined them again.

"I saw her reading that book before, madam! _Heathen and un-Christian!"_ she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at Mary, "_Unnatural girl!"_

Her voice pierced Mary's ears. She would not have been surprised if the woman were to burst a vein in her forehead from the amount of noise she was making. Nor would Mary be sorry for it, either. The time called for Mary to make a rare statement (she talked little) and only one thing came to her at the moment.

"Won't you_ SHUT UP?"_ she snapped at Mrs. Hall, who did no such thing and was still screaming at the top of her lungs about the devil.

_Bloody Mrs. Hall_, she thought.

Mrs. Bennet in the meantime was reading the book for herself and her face was quickly turning an unhealthy shade of purple. With such a racket going on, Mr. Bennet naturally came down into the cellar also to see what was happening in his house.

"Mr. Bennet!" Mrs. Bennet shoved the open book in his face upon his appearance, "Look at what your daughter has been reading! Just look at it!"

He took the book and read. His lips moved along with the words. He looked at Mary, standing before them with her fists clenched… and laughed.

"I care not what she reads or what she becomes," he said, handing the book back to his wife, "Mary is a mistake."

"I cannot allow this!" Mrs. Bennet joined in with Mrs. Hall, "I know not where you acquired this book, but you had better believe that this is the last you shall see of it!"

Mary's whole body trembled in anger, in hate, and in scorn, "No it shall not be, madam!" she said forcefully, attempting in vain to control her anger, "It is my book!"

Her mother had no reply but muttered that she would burn it the first chance she got and turned and walked away. Mary felt herself just become contorted with rage. And she stalked after Mrs. Bennet.

"No! No, madam, no! It is mine and I have paid for it! If you cannot stand what I read, do not speak to me! I do not care! And fine! You may burn the book, you may lock me away forever, but you shall not suppress me, madam." Mary knew she was far out of control now, "You cannot control how or what I think. I will always have my opinions about me, even if you burn every single book I own! You, madam, are afraid of different things because you are weak, and I therefore shall never make the mistake of calling you my mother again!"

"Why, you ungrateful little…" Mrs. Bennet never finished her sentence because she could not think of words to call the girl who stood before her. Mary had never shouted before. It came as a shock to all. Mrs. Bennet's face was indescribable and the silence that settled throughout the house in the instant after Mary finished her speech bore into her eardrums louder than any noise.

Mrs. Bennet angrily marched directly past Mary and tossed the book into the hearth. Mary watched as _A Critique of Pure Reason _by Immanuel Kant went up into flames and slowly turned to nothing but ash. And she somehow felt that the idea of Pure Reason itself was burning. Mary was more alone in the world than ever before.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- That was just a bit of a prologue. Now the real story begins. I just had to tell a quick version of **_**Pride and Prejudice **_**through Mary's P.O.V. Also, every book that I mentioned in this first chapter was (and is) a real book written by real people, and I'd actually recommend you read some of them.**

**Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated- ****T**

**Pairing-**** Mary BennetxOC**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Thanks for reading so far.**

**Thinkoutsidethebun07****- Glad you liked it, most def. Thanks for the review! Mary is who she is, so I can't compromise her character. I hope you don't find her too unbearable. Thanks again.**

_Chapter Two…_

_I shall not be anything but what I am,_ Mary thought, almost begging herself to agree, _I shall not bend to another's liking. If friendless that makes me, than friendless I want to be._

For the past week, Mary had not spoken a single word to Mr. or Mrs. Bennet or Mrs. Hall. She spent every hour (after having completed her chores) in her room, gathering more and more anger. Anger was not something Mary often felt, you see. And when it was present, she did not feel it for so long nor so heated. True hate pulsed through her veins.

_Damn them all._

Mary was more than a little bit cautious of thinking such things. If she let herself get to angry all of her self-control would die away. She valued self-control, to put it lightly.

"Mary!" she heard her mother bang on the door and call her name, "Get yourself dressed and come down! We are to call on a friend of mine!"

Mary glared at the door. She did not care to call on anybody (she never did) and especially not any friend of her mother's. She replied with a simple, "Yes, madam," and turned to her closet. Most of her clothes were of simple cut but dark, dramatic colors. She chose her favorite gown with cap sleeves. It was black with no decoration and again, a simple cut. She matched it with black gloves to her wrists and a long, slender black bonnet. She wore her birthday ribbon around her neck. As she tromped down the stairs, Mrs. Bennet scowled at her dress.

"You look like a widow, Mary. All that black?" she sighed, rubbing her temples, "Now hurry along, won't you?"

_I shall not be anything but what I am, I shall not bend to another's liking. If friendless that makes me, than friendless I want to be._

Mary walked the entire way to Meryton three steps behind her mother, who talked nonstop. Mary did not even see a window to add in to the conversation even if she had wanted to do so. The sun was not yet so high in the sky, but the day was still sunny. Mary glared up at the sun, likely freckling her shoulders at that moment—she wore no shawl.

"And I always said that Maria Lucas…" Mrs. Bennet was prattling on.

"Madam," Mary interrupted her, closing her eyes momentarily in annoyance before reopening them, "Indeed, of which friend did you reference you—I do mean _we _are to call upon?"

"Dear me, I did not!" Mrs. Bennet cried, putting her hand on her heart at the _outrageous _and _nerve shattering _thought, "Mrs. Coleman. You recall her, do you not? I do believe her connubial attachment has been ended many years ago by way of the death of her husband, the poor thing. You commit that to memory as well, do you not, Mary?"

"I am sure I do not," Mary replied coolly, snapping a stick on the ground under her shoe, "You, madam, have never spoke of a Mrs. Coleman in the past and it is only palpable that I neither evoke the death of her husband; shall I offer her our sympathies?"

Keep in mind that was the very last thing Mary wanted to do.

"No; no, it happened so long ago I fear that would be quite inappropriate. She lives well enough in Meryton with her cats. No children, not that it's apposite for me to wonder why…" Mrs. Bennet spoke on, but Mary was not listening.

They reached Meryton in good time (not soon enough for Mary) and she began to think of other things far more pleasurable than walking through Meryton or having to sit through tea with Mrs. Bennet and this Mrs. Coleman, who ever she was. And the cats. Mrs. Coleman had cats? Mary shuddered and hoped they'd stay far away from her. Nothing to her was more abominable than a too-friendly cat that was inclined to jump on one's lap and cover her black gown all in cat hair. Black is the color best for showing off cat hair, unfortunately.

She thought instead of _Gulliver's Travels _and wondered what it would be like to wake up and be on a beach in Lilliput tied down by tiny people. Or be on display to a country of peoples sixty feet tall on average in Brobdingnag? And the Houyhnhnms! The country of intelligent horses, ruling the kingdom of grotesque creatures! Mary at that moment as she walked on through Meryton to this Mrs. Coleman's, she wished that she could just close her eyes and disappear to the Country of the Houyhnhnms! She did not fit in among these Yahoos (what the Houyhnhnms referred to as humans.)

Yes, that is how _Gulliver's Travels _ends. Gulliver goes to the Houyhnhnm's country and then never intends to leave and return home to England. _Well, I should never want to return to England were I in his position,_ Mary thought. They exile him, therefore forcing him to go home. He finds he cannot live amongst the Yahoos (humans) and lives the rest of his life as a recluse and speaks only to the horses in his stable.

Mary followed her mother until they reached a house, painted an average white with navy blue shutters. The garden included only roses and the walkway to the door was a dirt path. Mrs. Bennet knocked on the door, while Mary stood behind her, completely off the doorstop, still in the yard.

Mrs. Coleman did not look like Mrs. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet was round, rosy-cheeked, and had gleaming eyes. Mrs. Coleman was older, and much, much thinner. Her skin was pale and pallid, achieving a pasty color. Her eyes were dull and glassy, and Mary would even call them glazed-over. Her gown was slightly large.

"Dear Mrs. Coleman," Mrs. Bennet gushed, pulling Mary closer to her by her arm, "How are you today? I don't believe you have yet met my third daughter, Miss Mary Bennet."

Mary did not smile, but forced herself into a curtsy. From what she could tell, Mrs. Coleman was an average woman until the death of her husband. Then she took in the cats, stopped eating, never went in the sun again, and did nothing all day but make lace, thus her countenance. She nodded and greeted Mary civilly and bade they both come in. Her house smelled like old-woman perfume and cat. Mary did everything in her power to not hold her nose.

"Please, sit," she gestured to the seats around the table in her sitting room. Mrs. Bennet and Mary obeyed.

The sitting room had red patterned wallpaper that was likely at one point a deep color. Now it had faded. On the wall hung a portrait of a woman in a powdered wig from forty years ago at least and dark, forbearing eyes.

"That was my great-aunt, Sarah Revere," Mrs. Coleman offered, noticing Mary's gaze.

Mary forced a rare smile at the woman, "Indeed."

"So then you presume to be French?" Mrs. Bennet asked, absent-mindedly.

"Perhaps initially," their hostess admitted, "I have no knowledge of an immigration date, or if one even existed."

"It matters not," Mrs. Bennet replied quickly.

"Would you care for tea?"

"Please."

Mrs. Coleman rang the bell for her young housemaid and ordered her to bring in the teapot and teacups. Mary watched the girl nod and scurry off. She could not be over fifteen-years-old.

"Oh! And Hannah?" Mrs. Coleman called, causing the girl, Hannah to stop in her tracks and turn back around, "Tell my nephew to report down here instantaneously! Mention how rude he is being also!"

"Yes, madam."

Mrs. Bennet made useless small talk, while Mary sat stock-still, staring at the steam rising off of her cup. She could hear the grandfather clock to her left tick out the seconds and each one seemed even slower than its predecessor.

Footsteps on the entrance of the sitting room caused all three women to look up and proceed to stand up, as was only polite. A man entered the room, a large smile plastered across his face. Mary quickly looked away—she did not know what he found so pleasurable as to smile so, but was quite sure she did not care, either.

Mrs. Coleman introduced him, "This is my dear younger sister's only child, James Latimer. James, may I present Mrs. Bennet and her daughter, Miss Bennet?"

Mary bowed at her head and murmured a stiff, "How do you do?" Mary realized something further—she _was _to be called Miss Bennet now, instead of Miss Mary Bennet. She was the eldest of unmarried daughters. She even smiled at the thought—the title "Miss Bennet" was hers!

James Latimer looked to be hardly five-and-twenty. His stature was tall, and he was not the best looking of men, but certainly not ugly. His hair was unruly and black, but his eyes were an icy shade of blue. A blue that made Mary look twice.

"Miss Bennet," James Latimer acknowledged her, and gently brought her gloved hand to her lips. Mary, who had been looking at him indifferently the entire time, suddenly gasped in shock—James Latimer was an American!

"Indeed, my nephew from Baltimore," Mrs. Coleman was saying to Mrs. Bennet, "Came all the way to Meryton to spend a few months with his old aunt, is that not kind of him?"

"Inexplicably," Mary found herself saying, before she could think twice. By the time she realized exactly what she had said, it was too late. Mrs. Coleman blinked, James Latimer stifled a laugh, and Mrs. Bennet paused uncomfortably, but then plunged right back into conversation again, as if nothing had ever happened.

Mary blushed at her rudeness, and set to look busy… doing anything. She resolved to blow at her tea, as if it needed cooling. In truth, Mary found she could not drink a sup of tea without gagging. She simply did not care for it. The rest of the call was absolute torture. Mary forced down the smallest sip of tea and set to coughing, and had to excuse herself from the room momentarily to gulp water from the basin in the kitchen.

"Weak stomach," she lied quickly when she walked back into the room, mortified, all eyes on her.

Mrs. Bennet talked and talked. She even talked of talking! Mrs. Coleman seemed to enjoy listening, strangely enough. She even talked back. Mary planned to commit suicide before she ever became such a talkative, gossipy old hag. Every once in a while, Mary would look up to see James Latimer's eyes on her. She glared at him, causing him to back off.

For about five minutes.

When Mrs. Bennet declared it was time to leave for the fifth time (all other times she plunged straight back into conversation for another agonizing five minutes) she actually walked out the front door. But didn't stop talking, naturally. As soon as she was able to, she was gossiping about Mrs. Coleman and her nephew.

"An American!" her mother gasped as soon as they exited the yard, "To think, we were in the company of such a person!"

Mary had never been to America, nor had she heard much about it. It was supposed to be a place of savages and thieves who followed no rules and who ran about doing whatever pleased them and drank ale and gambled and are complete scoundrels. In short, Mary had never heard a single _good _thing said about the place.

But now, somehow when Mary thought of America, all she pictured were icy blue eyes. She cut these thoughts short and threw them from her mind immediately. Why not? They were simply absurd. Mary had many strange thoughts, but these ones truly frightened her. She vowed quickly to not turn into a Lydia or a Kitty.

When they finally returned to Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet repeated to her husband the _scandal _of an American in Hertfordshire. Mary rolled her eyes, when her back was faced to them. _An American must be a disagreeable thing,_ she pondered.

Mary decided to spend the remainder of the day in the kitchen attempting to bake a soufflé. How hard could it be, after all? First, she inhaled some of the flour on accident and spent a full quarter of an hour coughing and gagging. When she finally finished whipping the egg whites, her arm was so sore and stiff she feared it might fall off. When she finally put the thing in the oven, she felt like she'd fought in a battle, not baked a soufflé.

When it had finished baking, she carefully pulled it from the oven and showed it off to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet congratulated her on it, while her husband remained silent. And then the thing just collapsed. It is a miserable thing when a soufflé you spend half a day preparing falls in on itself not even a full minute after you pull it from the oven, and Mary glared at the ruined soufflé and coughed some more flour up.

Mrs. Bennet remarked that it was a weak French dish anyhow and not worth its trouble, while Mr. Bennet ordered to have the table set—best not let it go to waste, even if it was flat. For supper the three ate flattened soufflé and Mary downed it with a quick glass of water and reported straight to her chamber for the night.

For the first time ever, Mary looked at herself in her mirror. What you might expect of a nineteen-year-old girl was the reflection that looked at her back. She was gaunt-pale. Her cheeks were the farthest thing from rosy. Her hair was an average light brown, as were her eyes. Her hair hung a little past her shoulders without so much as a single curl or wave. Her cheekbones were defined. She could not say in a good or a bad way, however. Her nose was wide and her lips (which were the one thing she could find agreeable about herself) were her pink and sized. In short, Mary was plain.

Her figure was small. She was the shortest out of all of her sisters. Jane was tall and elegant. Lizzy was only slightly shorter than her. Kitty was average height, but had the best curves so it hardly mattered. Lydia was the tallest and the slenderest. Mary was just small and childlike still at nineteen years old. She appeared more to be fifteen-ish.

_There are worse things than being small. At least I am not fat like Camilla Waterhouse,_ she reasoned to herself.

The next morning, she woke and dressed in a modest gray gown and her hair was in a single braid down her back. After breakfast, Mrs. Bennet spent her time scolding Mary for the other day when she gagged on Mrs. Coleman's tea. How _impolite _and _savage-like _it was, though to an American it should be commonplace… Mary was not listening to her.

As Mrs. Hall collected dirty dishes, Mrs. Bennet turned to her daughter again, "Mary, have you done your chores yet today?"

"I have not, madam."

"Well, do them later. It looks as if to rain this morning, does it not? Make sure to bring in all of the laundry, if it should be re-wetted I should be quite distressed," Mrs. Bennet chattered.

_And we simply cannot have that, can we?_ Mary thought dryly, and left the room. It was a fine morning. The sky was gray and the air was cool. The wind blew gently, singing over the hills of heath. All beckoned to rain. Mary ran across the yard, the wind tearing at her skirt and hair and grabbed a basket off of the front porch. Longbourn stood proud and stately as always.

The basket fell from her grasp and was carried off by the wind. Mary chased it all the way to the country road to Meryton. She lunged for it, but the wind instantly moved it, as if taunting her. She gritted her teach and lunged again. No luck. The wind cut through her thin dress and gave her gooseflesh.

"Would, perhaps, some assistance be necessary, Miss Bennet?" a voice asked. Of course, Mary recognized it instantly, because indeed, how many people in Hertfordshire spoke with the slow lagging drawl that was the American accent?

She turned to face him and realized with anguish that his blue eyes had not been made any less sincere. He had a face that stuck in your mind even when only seeing it twice. His jaw was defined. His character—Mary had trouble reading. He did not dress so finely as most gentlemen and it was obvious he was not excessively wealthy. He was tall, however, over six feet and had perfectly even, white teeth, which she knew only because he smiled so often.

"If you're inclined to give it, Mr. Latimer," Mary replied, clenching her fists. Why was he speaking to her? Obviously, he had not been around the area enough to know that you are only to speak to Mary Bennet if forced to. Mary was more used to that system.

He caught her basket and handed it to her with a gracious bow, a big smile playing on his face. Mary, recognizing that he was mocking her, snatched it from his hands and turned on her heel in the most uncivil manner she could muster.

James Latimer laughed out loud at her. He had a deep, ardent laugh and used it, too. Mary was now shaking head to two with rage. She turned to face him again and silently watched him laugh. She had been in his presence for not even ten seconds and he'd made her almost the angriest she'd been in her life. She imagined slapping him would be satisfactory. Yes, very satisfactory indeed.

But she restrained herself. She would not shed her calm and grave deportment so easily. She viewed him through stern eyes, and watched the wind tear at his black hair, messing it up further.

"What, pray, is so humorous?" she asked in an even tone.

"You, Miss Bennet," he said.

_Bloody American,_ she thought and began walking back towards Longbourn. She still did need to bring all of the laundry in before the rain started, mind. It took her a few steps to realize James Latimer was following her. Where were Kitty and Lydia when you needed them? Surely they'd flirt with him and scare him off once and for all.

"Do you not need to be getting back to your aunt?" Mary demanded, walking faster.

He sped up as well, "Well, my visiting her is _inexplicable_, as you so pointed out."

Damn him. Who did he think he was, using her own words against her? Mary decided she did not like Americans one bit.

She turned to face him, feeling herself blush, "_That,_ sir, was a mistake on my part. I did not truly mean to imply that…" she trailed off, trying to think of what to say.

"That what?" James asked, "That it was a wonder that someone would sail all the way to England to visit an old aunt, dying anyway?"

"No!" blustered Mary, her cheeks now flaming. Oh, why had she let her tongue slip in that single moment?

"Then what did you mean to imply?" he stepped closer to her and she was hypnotized by his eyes. She pulled her own eyes away from his, as so she could speak, although not without interruption.

"I do not know; I apologize if there were any offence made. And if that is why you came here, you may now go, satisfied! Good day to you!" she dropped into a quick curtsy and began to walk briskly back to Longbourn.

James followed her still, "I did not come here for an apology, although I do accept yours."

"Then why have you come?"

"To inquire after Mrs. Bennet's health."

Mary stopped and faced him again, "Mr. Latimer, I am not Mrs. Bennet, so you may—"

"And is this not the direction of the Longbourn estate where Mrs. Bennet resides?" he interrupted her and grinned at his wit, "Ah, Miss Bennet, we do seem to be going the same way."

She wished that this man was as unintelligent as Bingley, and she could easily win in a conversation like the one just had because she could simply outwit him. But no, James would not be easily shed.

"Mr. Latimer," she whispered.

"Yes?" Damn, she hadn't actually planned on him hearing her in that moment.

"Um, _why _is it that you are liable to inquire after the health of Mrs. Bennet?" she made up the question off the top of her head

"Do you always refer to your mother as so prescribed a name as that?" he asked.

"Yes," Mary answered him, "For I am barely on speaking terms with the woman."

"And the woman sure does love to speak, so that must be something," James pointed out, "If you don't mind me saying so."

"Say what you wish about her," Mary spat, "I will not hinder you."

"I sense anger."

"You sense correctly."

"Pray, why are you so livid with your mother?"

Mary turned on him, "And why would I owe you such information?"

"You don't. I was just wondering if you might grace it upon me anyway."

She rubbed her chin and pondered, "Perhaps I shall, come closer."

He did.

"Let us be vague; Mrs. Bennet does not approve of… certain reading materials," she said slowly into his ear.

"What such reading materials are these?" James wanted to know.

"What does it matter?" Mary demanded, angry that he wasn't getting the whole point of the story, "She believes me unnatural, heathen, and un-Christian, and burned a book of mine after the most horrid argument!" And there she said it. So much for being vague—that was pretty much the entirety of the story minus a few inconsequential details. That was the elucidation for the contemporary state of her life in a nutshell.

"I see how it is, but you mistake my inquires, Miss Bennet," he grinned down at her, "I am fond of reading myself. What sorts of books _have _you been torturing your poor mother with?"

"Do not mistake Mrs. Bennet for being anything like poor," Mary ordered, holding up her pointer finger as she made her speech, "Anything I have done to her is exceedingly diminutive to her actions towards me. I speak truthfully. If she refuses to recognize me for exactly what I am, I most categorically do not consider her reduced."

"Such a statement is intrepid for a young lady," he said in a mocking way, "You certainly are angry."

"I was under the conjecture that we had already accredited to that much," she pointed out.

"Right you are, Miss Bennet, how discourteous of me," he grinned at the word _discourteous_, and was therefore mocking her again, "But please, satisfy the curiosity my illustrious love of reading offers me—"

"Or condemns you," Mary interrupted him this time.

"Perhaps—what on Earth were you reading?" he asked, finally.

"_A Critique of Pure Reason,_ by Immanuel Kant," she sighed, recalling how that book had been burned to nothing.

James laughed. Again. He laughed loudly and forwardly, irritating her further.

"What is so humorous?" she asked for a second time.

"You," he replied the same way as last, "You think you are such a dreadful, naughty girl by sneaking off to the tiny little Meryton bookshop and purchasing German philosophy that preaches science in place of religion."

Mary felt herself blush again. She racked her brain to find something to argue that statement with. She did not think fast enough, and James was not done.

"You know nothing of the outside world, do you Miss Bennet? Don't you know that there are places beyond Hertfordshire?"

"Of course I—" she sputtered, but he went on.

"And that such writers as Kant are only the beginning. You are innocent, Miss Bennet, and dare I say ignorant?"

"Ignorance," Mary felt her tongue wrap around the word, "Ignorance, I despise. Anything like stupidity is abhorrent."

"Ignorance," James corrected, "can be also be excusable, if the subject has had no opportunity to know any better than to be ignorant."

"I suppose that makes sense enough," Mary agreed, "Two kinds of ignorance. Take my eldest sister, Jane. She is ignorant. She does not believe a single soul is capable of malicious intent."

"An unforgivable ignorance to be sure," James put in, grinning and obviously mocking her.

"Is it not?" she argued, "One must be dense—truly dense if the world is indecipherable to them. If you do not think on as much of a large-scale as possible, your ignorance is unforgivable, as Jane's is."

"You are precise and merciless in your judgment, Miss Bennet," James told her, "And I suppose you may be accurate. Unlike your depicting of your sister's ignorance, I declare yours to be understandable and therefore forgive you for it. But I have resolved to help you—to see such a girl so innocent of the world is difficult to watch. Would you make a quick trip to my aunt's house? I believe I should be able to lend you some satisfactory reading materials."

"I suppose I will," Mary said, and smiled. It was not a full smile, more like a smirk, but it had not been forced along with all that was civil. It was a real, genuine smile.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- **_**Hem, hem,**_** hard to believe I'm only fourteen, right? Kidding. Anyway…**

**This one was longer. Also, I imagine Mary as she looks in the movie with Keira Knightly as Elizabeth Bennet. So just think Tallulah Riley. Just your average girl.**

**Please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated- ****T**

**Pairing-**** Mary BennetxOC**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Much thanks.**

**Thinkousidethebun-**** Thanks a bunch! I'm glad you like James, I wasn't sure about him. Maybe thought he was too much.**

**pottergirls-**** I appreciate your compliments, thank you for reading.**

_Chapter Three…_

James made his inquiry of Mrs. Bennet, who was hardly civil to him, seeing as he was a mere American, but he only laughed of it. Mary found one thing about James Latimer she could respect—he needed no one else's kindness. It seemed they would have something in common after all.

James was expressive though. He was not shy, but just stood up and said his opinions, whether or not anyone wanted to hear it. Well, hadn't he been doing that to her for as long as she'd been conversing with him? He was confident in himself and spoke loudly and forcefully, as compared to Mary's softer, graver tone. She found him utterly superior in that sense. And she was bemused by it all.

They walked back to Mrs. Coleman's abode, and Mary bid the woman good morning, and was only forced to make small talk with her while James retrieved the books from upstairs in the room he slept in. Mary no longer found in inexplicable that James would visit her—she was just a lonely old woman.

When he returned, he held two books. One was extremely thin, and not any more than a single night's read. The other was of average thickness. He showed her the thin one first.

"Miss Bennet, this is what I believe you should start with," he handed it to her.

The book was entitled _Common Sense _by Thomas Paine. The title definitely intrigued her and sparked her interest, and she looked to him for further explanation.

"Thomas Paine wrote it in 1775 in Philadelphia during the war," he told her, tapping the cover with his finger, "It is by and large just an exceedingly long speech on why America ought to be liberated from British rule. He writes of some of the problems that kings and monarchies have caused in the past and terminates they are unnecessary because these systems of government do not work for the good of all. Think of it, Miss Bennet, do you not agree that all men are equal at creation and therefore the division between kings and subjects is a false one?"

Mary stared into his sincere blue eyes as she pondered all he had said. And (be ready for it) she was glad she met him. As absurd a thought as it was, it was true. Had she never met the American, James Latimer, she would likely never have been introduced to such ideas.

"Well," James concluded when he realized she would not answer, "Think on it. And this one here is actually a novel." The title read, _120 Days of Sodom_, by Marquis de Sade, "It is most likely outside of your usual reading habits, and thought you might like to broaden your horizons."

"And how would you know of what lies in my usual reading habits, Mr. Latimer?" Mary retorted, accepting the second book also.

His blue eyes bore into her and he smirked, leaning down to bring his face level to hers, "Miss Bennet, if you find Immanuel Kant forward, you have yet to see it all. Read them both."

"I shall," Mary promised, and stood to leave, "Good day, sir."

"Good day, madam."

Mary walked home, holding both books close to her. She would have to make sure neither Mrs. Hall nor Mrs. Bennet would happen to stumble upon them. That would be rather embarrassing—having to explain to James why his books had been thrown in the sitting room fie. The sky grew gray and cloudy by the minute, and Mary ran the last half a mile to Longbourn, as the drops began to fall down.

One hit her forehead, then the back of her neck. It was so cool and wet and she dropped James Latimer's books carelessly in the shelter of the front porch and jumped down the steps four at a time, like she did when she was a child. She ran and held her arms out as to feel the rain. She tripped over vines and screamed in delight.

We all remember one time or another in our childhood, where we would, on a rainy day, simply ran as fast and as far as our excess energies would allow, and pull down the getting wet laundry (although with no heart in the job) and laugh out loud when a white sheet would fall into a puddle of mud. That was a fair description of Mary's own afternoon that day.

As if she were seven years old again.

And Mary did read James Latimer's books. She did not sleep that night, but rather stayed up and read both books cover to cover. The first one, _Common Sense_, was as she expected. Thomas Paine wrote with vigor and emotion. _He _would not be suppressed. Not even by the king of England himself. Mary found she could respect him.

He wrote, "Democracy," the new French system of government. Mary found other thoughts when she thought of America—a country from the beginning that was built on new ideas. When she finished it (it did not take long) she glanced around her chamber and laughed out loud at the folly of kings and queens. How useless they were!

Then she began _120 Days of Sodom,_ which started dark, and violent and got worse. Mary was horrified. The man was sick! The story was about a group of four wealthy "gentlemen" who enslaved teenage victims and sexually tortured them. There were about five or six times when Mary threw the book down and seriously thought she might puke.

What sort of gentleman was James Latimer giving a _lady _a book such as this? She planned many ways of how she was to give him a piece of her mind next time she saw him. But something kept her picking the disturbed book back up again. She read of stories told by prostitutes and the horrors of their lives. It left her wondering if something like this book were real.

Of course James gave her such a book! She realized it in the seconds after she finished the last page. She, Mary Bennet, was not a lady. Not any more than he was a gentleman. So then surely the civilities and formalities one would expect of a lady and a gentleman did not apply. He could recommend books that exposed the harshness and realness of life outside the fairy-tale like life of the upper class.

Why should she pretend that people forced to become prostitutes (for lack of qualifying for any other occupation) did not exist? Lying to yourself about the world like so made you smaller and smaller until you were about as shallow as Lizzy or Jane.

By then dawn was breaking, and Mary hurried downstairs, after shoving the books under the sheet at the foot of her bed. She dared Mrs. Hall or Mrs. Bennet to try and find them there.

She sang quietly as she did her chores. Mary did not have the loveliest voice ever, but it was much better than anyone else's at Longbourn and they had no right to criticize her for it. Mary sewed well. She could do small, even stitches twice as fast as any of her sisters and could finish the entire mending pile before a quarter of an hour. Mary did not know how to embroider, unlike her four sisters. She refused to learn as a child—it would be a cold day in Hell before she would spend time over something like embroidery.

Mary did know how to spin thread, although hers was large and ugly compared to the soft, pretty material Kitty or Jane would make. In short, Mary had only the best voice and the best handwriting—that was it.

And when she had ran out of chores to do, she filled the bucket up at the well and doused it with lye soap. She stole the brush from Mrs. Hall's closet and got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the sitting room floor. She then moved on to the entrance hall. Then the kitchen. And then the stairs. And then the back parlor. After completely scrubbing the dinning room floor, she realized that she had ran out of floor to scrub, unless she went up to the second floor.

Her small pale fingers were red from the soap and water and sore from the scrubbing. Mary's hands had never been soft, like a lady's ought to. It was just one more thing that separated her from her sisters. She could recall a public ball that the five girls attended, and they were introduced in order. The four ladylike Bennet girls had pale, soft, perfect, white hands. The day before Mary had been polishing every piece of furniture in the house for penance of missing church one Sunday (she was too busy being lost in the woods) and she got to show off her blistered, bleeding, oozing hands, that had swollen too big for any of her gloves.

No, Mary never had nice hands anyway.

Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Bennet later came bustling about, not even noticing how Mary was collapsed upon the loveseat in exhaust.

The next week, Mrs. Bennet came rushing home from Meryton her face flushed with happiness. Mary regarded her coldly, but she took little notice of it.

"Mary!" Mrs. Bennet grasped her daughter's shoulders, "I have received word from Lizzy!"

"How perfectly lovely," Mary said distastefully, "And to what do we owe such stimulation on your behalf?"

Mrs. Bennet shoved an opened letter into her hands, "We are to join Kitty at Pemberly!"

"And am I to stay with my aunt Philips whilst you and Mr. Bennet are away, madam?" Mary asked, uncertainly. She did not like her aunt very much, nor did her aunt like her. It would be a long, dreadful visit.

"Oh, goodness no, Mary! You are to come also! Lizzy insists on it! Read the part…" Mrs. Bennet opened the letter and pointed to the third paragraph, "She says, 'I have become truly at a loss of what to think if my dear sister Mary were to miss it. I conjecture that she will likely gravely recline, but do convince her otherwise.' You see? You are to come, Mary! And Jane and Mr. Bingley as well!"

The blood drained from her face. Pemberly! Why on earth would Lizzy want her to join her at Pemberly? It made so little sense, that Mary, yes, even, smart, knowing Mary was absolutely clueless. She stumbled to the nearest chair and gaped down at her lap, but Mrs. Bennet took no notice and was quickly off again to spread the news.

"Mr. Bennet, Mr. Bennet!" she called, lifting her skirts and waving the letter.

Mary forlornly packed her things in a small trunk. A few day gowns (most of them black or gray) a shawl, her black gloves, her parasol, her under things, her nightclothes, and enough books to keep her occupied for her stay. _Gulliver's Travels, Camilla, Evelina, _and _The Italian._ She also threw in Jane's small book of poetry, last minute.

When she sat on her trunk, throwing all of her slight body against it, forcing it to close and then latched it. She wore her dark gray traveling dress with her black bonnet and with her pale pallid skin and unhealthy looking light brown eyes, she dubbed herself rather unapproachable—they way she liked to appear. She even bothered opening her trunk again to throw in Lizzy's vial of perfume—just because it was so pretty to look at.

She tried to make the best of her situation. As much as she found her two elder sisters a waste of time, they were not unkind. No, they were perfectly civil, weren't they? It would not be so unbearable. And Kitty would be there. Kitty, the closest thing Mary ever had to a friend.

The next morning the carriage was brought around to the front and Mary helped her father load it, never mind if it wasn't a lady's job. As they passed through Meryton, Mary interrupted with a speech on how she had to return something of Mrs. Coleman's.

She jumped from the carriage and looked about Mrs. Coleman's house. The yard was empty. She put both _Common Sense _and _120 Days of Sodom_ into the window boxes around back. She scribbled a quick note:

_Observe your window boxes._

_-M. Bennet_

Mary then did a very unladylike thing. She lifted her skirt and climbed up the rose trellis behind Mrs. Coleman's house._ Do not look down,_ she thought calmly, _Do not look down and you shall not fall._ She did not fall. The window on the second floor she peered in was the bedroom from which she had seen James retrieve the books. She stuck the note in the window skeleton, the writing side pressed against the glass where he would see it.

Climbing down was harder. She fell the last eight feet and it hurt her rear end considerably. She brushed herself off and hurried back to the carriage waiting by the road.

They rode all day and stopped only to eat dinner on a hill in the countryside. The sun was merciless and Mary sat miserably in the grass, throwing bits of her biscuit at the birds. It might have been a beautiful day in a beautiful country meadow, but she did not notice it. Honestly, she preferred nice dark clouds and cool rain.

They ate supper at an inn and was were they spent the night. The next day they woke bright and early and did mostly the same thing again. It was horribly boring, and Mrs. Bennet never ran out of things to say. Mary would have liked to sit out by the manservant driving the thing, had that been appropriate, where at least _he _did not have to listen to the woman's chatter.

They saw a good deal of fresh English countryside. Mary had hoped they'd pass by a caravan of gypsies or something to make the trip slightly interesting, which they saw no such thing. Only farms, meadows, and towns. How far was Pemberly anyhow?

On the evening of the third day, Mr. Bennet posed the question, "We may either stop now, as it grows dark, or continue on to Pemberly and perhaps arrive at an exceedingly late hour."

"Oh, let us stop!" Mrs. Bennet sighed, "I cannot take another hour in this carriage, let us arrive upon the morning, Mr. Bennet."

"We shall go on," Mary decided for them both, "Another hour or two is not so long and it will move this trip faster."

"I do hope Lizzy forgives us for arriving so late and we'll likely wake them all up!" Mrs. Bennet worried, "I suppose apologies…"

"_You _may apologize, madam, but I shall not," Mary began a speech, " Did not Mrs. Darcy ask us to come in such a amorous way (even if amorous she did not feel) and she shall accept however we act upon arriving. If she was only acting amorous to appear in the least bit civil, she must now consent to her actions and perhaps she shall learn better next time."

"What a cruel thing to say!"

Mary shrugged and looked back out the window, though she could see nothing but the reflection of her own face and her parent's in the dark window. And it was an hour and forty-five minutes until their carriage pulled in through the front gate of Pemberly. Mary got out, stretching her legs and stared up at the house.

It was large, to be sure. And very grand. Too fancy. Obviously built long ago by someone who had more money than taste. But it was a bed with clean sheets, wasn't it? So Mary looked upon it eagerly. The front yard was large and stately, with the carriage-road along the side. The grounds, themselves were large, stretching many acres. Mary cared little for nature.

The door knockers were knocked, and a tired-looking housemaid answered it, beckoning they come in, once she realized who they were. She introduced herself as Mrs. Reynolds.

"My mistress said not to expect you until tomorrow," she said, conversationally.

The inside was the most futile inside of a house Mary had ever set eyes upon. It was even worse than Netherfield. _Well, some might find it agreeable._ Mary did enjoy looking at the art. There were many paintings on the walls. In the main sitting room, a large portrait hung, obviously of Mr. Darcy.

Mary looked up at it and eyed it sternly. The picture was about four feet by three feet large, and placed in the center of the wall, not in any way hidden.

"What sort of man hangs a larger-than-life sized picture of himself in his parlor?" Mary demanded, before she could stop herself.

Mrs. Reynolds coughed to pass the moment over, and led them on without a word as if nothing had ever happened. Mary took one last look at the portrait. What a conceited ass… _Normal _people don't think themselves so wonderful as to hang such a thing on their wall!

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were showed to their chambers on the second floor, while Mrs. Reynolds escorted Mary up another flight of stairs. And then another.

"This is the room Mrs. Darcy picked. I'm afraid it was the last available room, otherwise we would not be putting a guest there," she explained, holding up her candle, for the stair case they now climbed was not like its predecessors. It was narrow and dark.

"We've got quite the full house." This woman was talkative herself, "Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. And both Miss Bennets, of course," she listened them all off.

The finally reached the very top floor of the house, the attic if you will, and Mary looked around by what she could see by candle light. It was mostly just a long, dark hallway. The floor creaked under their shoes. Mrs. Reynolds opened a door and set the candle down on the end table.

It was average-sized, much like Mary's chamber at Longbourn. The ceiling was low and the wallpaper faded. The furniture was dusty and old, as if no one had entered this room in years.

"This shall do nicely," Mary said coldly, and Mrs. Reynolds nodded and lit a few candles.

"Good night, Miss Bennet."

There were a few windows on each wall, which Mary instantly forced open with all of her strength. She pulled the covers off of the bed first. The dust all came up and coated the back of her throat. She coughed and gagged for a while.

She shook them forcefully out the window getting most of the dust out. She put them back on the bed, but found that they were still so dirty she could hardly bring herself to touch them for very long.

Sighing, she pulled the wooden chair over to the open window. She knelt on the chair and rested her elbows on the windowsill. Cool wind blew in her face pushing her hair back. Of course she would be given this room. Who liked Mary Bennet, anyway?

Suddenly, the wind from outside blew in and extinguished every candle Mrs. Reynolds had lit. The room began dark, but her eyes adjusted soon enough. She stared up at the moon and stars. Perhaps they liked her…

Mary Bennet fell asleep with her head on the windowsill, cold air blowing in, still in her traveling clothes and bonnet.

Upon waking, she heard something small scurry across the floor. She sat up instantly. Her neck was sore, her back was sore, and her head ached something awful. A mouse. The mouse reappeared but then saw her and ran. Mary leapt out of the chair and tried to catch it in her hands but it disappeared into a hole in the wall.

Wonderful. Mary had been invited to stay at Pemberly, the nicest house for quite a few counties, and which room is she given? The dusty, mice-infested one in the attic! Mary dressed herself with new hate for her sister, Elizabeth.

In the light of day, the room did not look much better. Mary could see enough to realize that the wallpaper was indeed a dark green color. She walked down four flights of stairs and to the sitting room where everyone had gathered before breakfast.

Indeed, they were all there. Jane and Bingley sat by the window with Mrs. Hurst and her husband. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy sat in the center of the room. Lizzy wore the nicest looking dress Mary had ever seen her in. Well, she did have a rich husband. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet spoke with them, while Kitty and Miss Bingley sat at a table to their own, not looking happy with each other.

Miss Bingley was four-and-twenty. A full seven years older than Kitty, who was only seventeen. She was a fairly pretty woman, Mary allowed her that much.

"Ah, and here is our Mary now. Well, technically Miss Bennet now, isn't she?" Mrs. Bennet acknowledged her.

"Good morning, madam," Mary said coldly, just standing like a shadow in the doorway.

"Sister," Kitty raced up to embrace her, an embrace to which Mary replied to. It was good to see Kitty again. Dear Kitty, who did not judge her as others did…

"How have you been fairing during your visit?" Mary whispered in her ear.

"Oh, horribly!" was her answer, "But do not say that. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy are fine, Pemberly is fine, but it is that awful Miss Bingley. I fear I shall lose all self-control and strangle her!"

"I am here now, although I am not sure if that is much of a comfort to you," Mary said, as they linked arms, "Have you heard from Lydia?"

"Have I?" Kitty smiled, "And she signs each letter 'Mrs. Wickham.' One would think she would realize that it is no news that she is a married woman now."

"Oh, Mary!" Lizzy exclaimed, "I am sorry for your room. We have only got one left and that was promised to Mr. Ashby weeks ago. He shall be arriving tomorrow."

"I rather like it, madam," Mary responded, causing her sister to eye her with surprise. Mary had never been very pleasant to her, but never called her "madam" either. Well, Mary was angry.

Breakfast was all well enough, and the guests at Pemberly all prattled about unimportant things. Amidst it all, Mary managed to still think intelligent thoughts. Miss Bingley was abhorrent—Kitty was not exaggerating. All so uppity and conceited. Mary wanted to strangle her too. But they were the three unmarried young ladies and were expected to sit together most of the day.

The following day, Mr. Ashby arrived. He was young, maybe five-and-twenty, and was skinny and shy-looking. Mary eyed him skeptically. Lizzy grinned at her and whispered in her ear, "I invited you knowing he was coming. Wouldn't he be a fine husband?"

Mary saw it all plainly _now._ They all knew that Kitty would find a husband soon enough anyhow. It just left Mary. Lizzy assumed Mary would never marry unless she found someone else who would likely never marry and put them together. And the result was this chicken-like, stupid, shy, Mr. Ashby.

She turned her hard gaze to her sister's laughing one, "Indeed, madam." Mary turned on her heel and walked away. _Of course! Oh, of course!_ she thought, _Did I not wonder why I was to come here? It never made sense… until now. Everything does happen for a reason. Lizzy thinks I'll marry that man because I'll be too desperate not to!_

And so Mary realized the only reason she had been invited to Pemberly.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Please review.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author- ****4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Pairing-**** Mary BennetxOC**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Yup.**

**abyssgirl-**** Thanks for the compliments!**

**distorted realities-**** Glad you like Mary! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Thinkoutsidethebun07-**** Thank you so much for saying all of those nice things! (tears in eyes) I'm truly flattered. Thanks so much.**

**Serena- Yup.**

_Chapter Four…_

Lizzy proposed they have ride to see the Pemberly grounds. Mary had little taste for nature, but it was not within her preference to object. It was a horribly sunny day and everything was dry. There was not even her favorite thunderstorm weather to accompany her on this carriage ride.

Most of the gentlemen opted out, leaving only Lizzy, Jane, Mary, and Mr. Ashby. Lizzy prompted Miss Bingley and Kitty to stay at Pemberly together and keep each other company, turning both girl's face's red in annoyance.

"Mary has not yet seen all of Pemberly," she added, "We shall have dinner by the pond, and be back in time for supper."

The carriage sat four people in the back, but had a narrow bench where the driver would sit to hold another two. Mr. Ashby took the reins while Lizzy and Jane settled in the back. Mary began to climb in after them on the opposite bench, when Lizzy interjected.

"We cannot allow Mr. Ashby to sit alone, why don't you accompany him, Mary?"

"I don't accompany him because I do not feel that we cannot allow him to sit alone. If you feel that way, madam, then you may sit by him," Mary stated clearly, obviously appearing rude and obviously hardly caring.

Lizzy gasped and Jane's eyes were as large as eggs. Mary's countenance changed very little after the proclamation and Mr. Ashby had been turned away at the moment so she did not notice if he was offended by her speech.

"Mary, I am your elder sister and a married woman, at that. I outrank you, now do as I say."

Wordlessly, Mary climbed up on the narrow board next to Mr. Ashby, her fists in tight balls, as if she were about to punch Lizzy. She had more self-control than that, luckily and her fingernails only dug into her palms leaving marks and indents there for the remainder of the evening.

Mary could enjoy herself very little out of the shade on a hot day next to a man like Mr. Ashby, while Lizzy kept trying to have them strike up a conversation. She was not taking the bait, however. She noticed little of the scenery, only grass and trees and screeching birds, while she felt herself roasting alive. There was not a speck of breeze to be found.

"How can Mary be so goaded on such a lovely, sunny day?" Lizzy wondered aloud to Jane, not out of Mary's earshot whatsoever.

_How indeed?_ Mary thought, dryly, _I only imagine being stretched on a rack and having my joints separate or having my tongue ripped out would be yet less torturous than this._

Eventually, they _did _make it to the pond Elizabeth spoke of. Mary regarded it with distaste—it was mostly dried up and what water was there was brown and boiling hot. Apparently, they had brought a small basket of apples and bread and cheese. She was not particularly hungry and threw her apple in the pond just to see the splash and fed the cheese and bread to random screeching birds.

"You are bringing them all over here," Lizzy noticed, waving her hands at them, "Stop feeding them."

Mary threw another hunk of cheese at a bird.

Mr. Ashby looked extremely uncomfortable through it all and silently ate his dinner; his eyes were downcast for the most part. Mary assumed he could only guess at the relationship between the sisters and did not want to be involved. Well, Mary did not want to be involved either, so that made two of them. A large squawking black bird flew down from the trees, seeing Mary giving away her food. Of course, before it arrived at its destination of Mary's lap, it let loose its droppings on Mr. Ashby's shoulder.

His black suit jacket was stained white on one side, the dripping wetness of it stole down his arm as well. He looked at it in horror, not sure what to do.

"Dear me!" Lizzy and Jane gasped, but Mary suppressed a laugh—it was the most interesting thing that had happened all day—and a funny one at that.

"Nice bird," she said, giving it the remainder of her bread.

On the ride back to the estate, Mary got out of having to sit next to Mr. Ashby by worrying that the bird droppings might be smeared from his shoulder to hers on that narrow bench. Lizzy reluctantly allowed her to sit in the back with them, although not trying any less to have them get any better acquainted with each other.

Kitty greeted her at the demise of the ride at Pemberly's front doors. Although, when Mr. Ashby pushed his way inside, nothing needed to be said. Both girls waited for Elizabeth and Jane to pass before they held each other and laughed until they were collapsed on the ground, tears rolling down their cheeks, Mr. Ashby's face burned in their minds.

.x.X.x.

"Can you believe it?" Kitty screamed in delight, "Mr. Darcy's to hold a ball while we're here!"

"Honestly, I can," Mary responded, flipping through the random assortment of books on the shelves in Kitty's chamber. Both girls were in their nightclothes, Kitty having insisted they share a room instead of having Mary sleep all the way up in the attic.

"Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine Bennet?" a voice asked, knocking lightly on the door, "Are you decent?"

"Decent enough," Mary snorted and pulled the door open, feeling little modesty. It was only Mrs. Reynolds anyhow. Mary could think of worse people to see her in her nightgown, honestly.

The woman was surprised by her forwardness, but simply pushed two letters in her hands and uttered a good night, quickly turning away. Mary examined the letters. One was addressed to "Miss Bennet," and the other addressed to "Mary and Kitty Bennet." The latter was from Lydia, Mary could tell because she noticed it was signed, "Mrs. Wickham." She handed that one off to Kitty and opened the one addressed to herself only.

_Miss Bennet,_

_New reading materials in your window boxes awaiting your return to Hertfordshire._

_-J. Latimer_

"Oh, poor Lydia!" Kitty cried, crumbling the letter, "She is afraid she no longer loves Wickham!"

"That is unfortunate, indeed," Mary allowed, "What shall we tell her?"

"I know not," Kitty rubbed her temples, "But I just feel awful."

Mary quickly hugged her, "I know—I do as well. Somehow I feel that things will work themselves out."

Kitty only nodded. She then perked, "What are the contents of your letter?"

"This?" Mary held up James Latimer's note, "Look for yourself."

Kitty read the note and then looked at her confused, "It makes little sense."

"Allow me to rid you of your unawareness, sister," Mary grinned, "That note is from James Latimer. Mrs. Coleman's American nephew. He is lending me books."

Kitty's face fell in disappointment, "Oh, how romantic," she sighed in sarcasm, "The exchange of books!"

"Romantic?" Mary scoffed, "Hardly. I believe Americans to be incapable of romance."

"I know no Americans," her sister reminded her.

"And I, one, which is not very many to judge from. I like him indifferently," Mary said, "But these books are not just any books. Do you remember as I wrote to you about Mrs. Bennet burning my book?"

"I evoke it, yes."

"These books are of a similar nature," Mary explained, "Thus the window boxes—it is very secret."

"Except not anymore."

"No—a secret it is still, because this shall go no farther than you, is that not right, Kitty?"

"Of course, of course," Kitty replied vaguely, "I excel at keeping naughty, mischievous, dirty secrets."

"You'd best be," Mary warned her.

"Come now, Mary, who would I tell, _Miss Bingley?"_

"Fair point. Well, I suppose I owe you the keeping of one nasty, awful, dark secret now."

"You suppose correctly—I'll hold you to it."

"What are you doing?"

Kitty was fishing a sheet of paper out of the desk along with a pen and ink. She began writing, "I'm replying to Lydia. And don't think I would leave James Latimer out."

"I thought this would go no further than you," Mary quoted, utterly annoyed.

"And Lydia," her sister said quickly, "Don't worry, she does not write other people. And if she does her letters are not read, for they only include idle gossip anyhow."

"Fine, tell Lydia," Mary sighed. Two people more than she'd intended knew about James Latimer and his books now. Well, Kitty and Lydia could keep secrets, just not to each other. Didn't she keep Lydia's planned elopement a safe secret? Mary didn't like comparing her situation with James and elopement, so she resolved to go to bed as Kitty wrote.

The night of the supposed ball at Pemberly came all too quickly for Mary and not quickly enough for Kitty. She was now bouncing off the walls in excitement, hardly able to contain herself.

"Oh, sister! We shall dress alike! We may wear identical gowns and style our hair the same way!"

The end result was old mint green muslin that both of the girls owned was given new trim. Mary frowned at it—it was so very fancy. She decided she would only wear it for Kitty's sake. And then Mary's hair was curled. Mary had never curled her hair once, so it was a very new experience. Her nose was powdered and she felt as foolish as a clown in all of it.

"You look beautiful," Kitty assured her, perfecting her own hair.

Mary looked at herself in the large mirror they were sharing. No. She looked awkward. _Kitty _looked beautiful in that hairstyle and that gown, but Mary just looked like she was playing dress-up. It was that pathetic. As they made their way down, they saw just how fancy Mr. Darcy's ballroom was. Many guests had already arrived, but she could see Lizzy standing in the center conversing with that blasted Mr. Ashby.

Lizzy began to turn her way, but Mary grabbed Kitty's arm and ducked behind a large vase in the corner.

"Mary!" Kitty cried, "What is the matter? You'll wrinkle our gowns!"

"Who cares?" Mary countered, peering out from around the vase, "I've got to hide from Lizzy."

"Why?"

"Or she'll bring around that Ashby man and force me to talk to him for the rest of the night," Mary explained her predicament.

Kitty began laughing out loud, "Lizzy had you set up with someone? With _him?"_

Mary sighed, irritated, "It is not humorous, Catherine."

"Perhaps Lizzy just means well."

"She thinks she is doing me an reputable favor, perhaps," Mary began another speech, "But she perceptibly knows my disposition very little, otherwise she would apprehend the fact that I have done very well on my own, and shall continue to do so in the future. My soul speaks for no husband. And a life with no husband is that of a free woman—which I am, and intend to stay as such."

"Try telling that to her," Kitty snorted, arranging her feet so they folded more comfortably in their cramped space.

"Let us observe now," both girls peeked from around the vase and saw Lizzy and Mr. Ashby in the center of the room. Lizzy was on her toes trying to see the room better, obviously looking for something—obviously Mary.

"Ha," Kitty laughed, "Where is her plan now? Let us get back to the party soon."

"I suppose, but we must keep a distance from Lizzy," Mary agreed and consented to filing out back into the ballroom. They found seats together along the walls, and spoke some, Mary keeping an eye out for her second eldest sister, and Kitty keeping an eye out for any sort of young gentleman.

"It he not rather commendable?" Kitty pointed to a young man speaking to Mr. Hurst, "He has got green eyes! I wonder if I may be introduced…"

"Let's see," Mary pulled her up and began walking over.

"Oh, Mary, no!" Kitty cried, "I could never!"

"It will be fine," Mary promised her and they approached Mr. Hurst with a curtsy.

"Mr. Hurst," Mary began in her usual polite manner, "My sister, Kitty and I were looking for Mrs. Hurst but do not seem able to find her—did she not come?"

Mr. Hurst was a perfectly civil man, and bowed and smiled at both girls, "How kind of you to inquire. No, Mrs. Hurst finds herself unwell tonight, but asks no one enjoy the party any less."

"Oh, how dreadful," Mary observed, "Give her our hopes of a soon recovery, won't you?"

"Of course. Ah, how rude of me! I never introduced my young friend here to you ladies!" Mr. Hurst patted the young man on the hand to draw him closer, "This is my cousin, Mr. Sutter. And these," he turned to the man, "Are Mrs. Darcy's younger sisters, Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine Bennet."

"Mr. Sutter, won't you keep Dear Kitty, company?" Mary gently pushed her sister forwards, "I believe I see an old acquaintance of mine."

Mr. Sutter (surprised, perhaps) replied in the affirmative, and Mary walked off, smirking. She let herself get lost in the crowd of people and spied from time to time later Kitty and Mr. Sutter conversing. And thus, Mary discovered something about herself. She could use her smarts in such ways as to appear social and appealing! With her confidence boosted, she helped herself to a glass of punch.

After a dance (in which Kitty and Mr. Sutter participated) they joined Mary by the refreshments. Unfortunately, Miss Bingley happened to walk up to find something to drink. She eyed Kitty and Mary and laughed out loud.

"I was under the impression that sisters grew out of dressing alike at ten years old," she sighed, shaking her head.

"Perhaps you were under a droll false impression, Miss Bingley," Mary responded calmly.

"How very droll indeed," she replied tightly, "And tell me, how is your sister, Mrs. Wickham doing lately? A happy patched up marriage?"

Kitty's face turned red, and Mary saw her clench her fists. Mary felt anger stir in her own body. The want to defend Lydia's name rose in her throat. She swallowed it. Mary knew that if she responded angrily she would appear foolish and lose the argument. She kept her calm demeanor.

"Very happy indeed. And how has yours been coming? Oh, that's right—how rude of me, you haven't a husband yet, have you, Miss Bingley," Mary countered.

"But it shouldn't be long now, because _my _sister didn't ruin my reputation," Miss Bingley snapped, turning purple in the face.

"And you'll find that once a reputation is lost one may never need worry of keeping one ever again."

"Indeed, is _that _what you've resorted to?" Miss Bingley laughed, even a tad loud, "Well, I won't judge you, I haven't got a sister who's a whore."

The next few moments were very fast for Mary. She remembered feeling angrier than she'd felt in a long time, and desperately needing an outlet for that anger. She acted in fury—one moment she was reaching for a white-frosted cake on the refreshment table and the next she was smearing it in Miss Bingley's face. Miss Bingley screamed and shoved her backwards. Her face was covered in frosting and cake and she was screaming and crying. The whole room was looking at her.

"Don't you ever say such a thing about my sister again!" Mary was shouting at her, "You didn't get it, did you? If you mess with Lydia, you mess with us also, you detrimental, sour-faced, horrid, old hag of a woman!"

Upon finishing her speech, Mary linked arms with Kitty and hurried out of the room. Her head was held high. The girls ran to their room, panting, Kitty collapsed on the bed, smiling.

"You were amazing, Mary! I've wanted to do that to her my whole visit! But, oh, you'll be in so much trouble…"

"I care not," Mary replied, throwing things in her trunk, "I'm leaving!"

"Leaving?" Kitty echoed, "Going where?"

"Longbourn. I'm going home."

Mary knew that she must leave. Her stay at Pemberly was done. She was relieved. No more Lizzy, no more Mr. Ashby, no more anyone. She finished packing and dressed herself back in her gray dress and bonnet.

She kicked open the door and walked down the stairs, meeting Lizzy, Jane, and Mrs. Bennet at the bottom of the stair well.

"What have you done?" cried Lizzy.

"I threw a cake in Miss Bingley's face, _that's _what I've done, madam," Mary answered her, pushing past her.

"What on earth are you doing, Mary?" Mrs. Bennet asked.

"What I should have done days ago, madam, I'm leaving!"

"You ungrateful girl!" Mrs. Bennet shouted, "Come back here this instant!"

But Mary only ignored her and continued walking out the door. She walked down the path and off of the Pemberly grounds. The night was refreshingly cool and the wind blew her skirt back. She walked briskly, breathing steadily. The oxygen to her brain improved her thinking and the blood to her limbs improved any other bodily function.

Mary did not regret dousing Miss Bingley with cake. Nor would she apologize for something she was not sorry she did. She decided that as she left the grounds in case someone would come around later, expecting her to feel any sort of remorse.

_Indeed, they will be sadly mistaken,_ Mary promised herself.

The nearest town was not by any means very large, nor very far from Pemberly. After having walked the two miles into its outskirts, she saw it was only a little bigger than Meryton. Most of the shops were closed, although some houses still had lamps lit within. She was alone on the empty streets—everyone had finished their evening errands. With what money she had, she paid for a ride to Meryton on the carriage whose driver said they would pass through Hertfordshire.

Mary spent the whole journey back smiling to herself, thinking of Miss Bingley with cake in her face, replaying the moment over and over again in her head. Was not Lizzy and Mrs. Bennet's reactions humorous as well? And wait until she told James of this!

James? She paused, rubbing her chin. And just who was James Latimer to her now, anyway? She did not like him at first, that much was obvious to herself. A she got to know him, she found she could respect his disposition, a rare thing for Mary to be sure. A _friend?_ Mary could think of no other alternative. James was her friend. Her only friend outside of Kitty and Lydia. It felt odd and foreign to think of such a thing, so she let her mind ponder elsewhere.

She slept at the same inn she had with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet on their journey to Pemberly. She had never traveled alone, and even felt scared at the prospect. For all of about fifteen or perhaps twenty minutes. She was nineteen after all! And so most nineteen year old girls hardly left their own hometown without an escort, she was obviously not _most _nineteen year old girls. She was Mary Bennet.

Mary fell asleep quickly thinking good thoughts and was prepared for the seconds days journey that would take her back to Meryton.

Longbourn looked as it always did. Stately and tall… Mary's childhood home. As she approached it, her trunk in tow, she realized she never felt very attached to it. _Miserable place,_ she thought, stepping up in front of it, _let bloody Mr. Collins have it._

Mrs. Hall was horrified to see her back so soon. …And alone… Mary realized that she was scared she might murder her in her sleep without the protection of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Mary likewise regarded her coldly and simply went up to her chambers to unpack. Mrs. Hall was not surprised to hear about Mary and Miss Bingley but did not have the bravery to scold her for it. Whenever Mary took a step towards her, she took two steps backwards.

And Mary felt no remorse for anything she had ever done—_that much _you must understand. Mrs. Hall may _be _scared, for all she cared.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Please review. Also, I'm going to estimate this story with be nine chapters of roughly the length of the ones I've got so far.**


	5. Chapter 5

align'center'>**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Whoa, I got a lot of reviews. (A lot of reviews for me, heh…)**

**Margaret920-**** I'm glad you approve of the language. Wasn't sure if I was doing it alright. I'm also glad you think an American for Mary would be interesting! :P**

**T-**** Thanks for reviewing. Uh, yeah, nine chapters is an estimate. BUT, I am writing at least two sequels to this I've decided, so maybe you'll read those… Thank you for saying such nice things!**

**distorted realities-**** Thank you for being such a good reviewer! You keep me inspired!**

**llGeekGoddessll-**** Yes, since Jane and Lizzy were so close, I figured Mary, Kitty, and Lydia would be also. Thanks for the review!**

**Serena- I love you guys SOOOOOOO much, you ALL keep me inspired! Truly…**

_Chapter Five…_

Mrs. Bennet was not pleased with Mary when she arrived back at Longbourn, that much was certain. She returned two days after Mary herself, having waited until the following morning to depart from Pemberly. And taking an extra day on the journey with no Mary to object to such a thing as she had done before.

Mrs. Bennet's complaints were as follows: Not only had she made more of a mess of their family's name, after all the scandal of Lydia, but she had also forced them to cut their visit at Pemberly so much shorter.

"We shall never be invited back now!" Mrs. Bennet cried.

"I do not care, madam," Mary spat, gripping the table that separated them, "And do you _honestly _think that Lizzy wanted me there? The only reason we had been invited at all was that bloody Mr. Ashby!"

"And you could have had him, Mary!" the woman screamed, "You ruined the one chance you were lucky to get and now you shall die an old maid!" Mary momentarily considered throwing the bowl on the table in front of her. She gripped the table harder.

"And so I shall be an old maid." Mary countered, "I should rather be alone than marry. And if I am ever within the same vicinity as Miss Bingley, I shall perhaps throw something much worse than cake at her."

"Why, you…"

Mary turned on her heel and darted from the room, her braid swinging behind her. She took extra care to slam the front door for good effect. She ran along the back of the house, her boots splashing through the mud of the garden, mercilessly splattering any plant in her way and finally looked in the window boxes. In the third one, beneath all of the daisies were three good-sized books. She smiled and held them to her chest as she went to hide them in her room.

Mrs. Bennet no longer spoke to her. You can likely imagine how much Mary cared about that. Very little, I assure. Mary spent every hour she was not working, reading a book of James Latimer's. She felt her ideas and opinions changing, molding, and then remolding, changing like seasons and weather. Books really do open your mind. She left the books she read in Mrs. Coleman's window box, and always checked her own window box for new ones.

And somehow, Mary knew someday she would be caught. That day came a few weeks after their disastrous Pemberly visit. It was Mrs. Hall, naturally. The woman had taken it upon herself to make sure that no new heathen books ever entered the front door of Longbourn again, and frequently "cleaned" Mary's chamber. It was a very similar scream to the scream Mrs. Hall released when she found _A Critique of Pure Reason._ Mary even guessed what had happened—it was like that day a few months ago all over again.

"Mary Bennet! I shall lock you in your chamber and you shan't see the light of day for ten years!" her mother screamed at her, grabbing her neck and leading her into her room.

"You disapprove of my reading materials, madam?" Mary glared at her, struggling in her grasp.

"Not only that, but I have found something else," Mrs. Bennet's face was pale white and livid. Mary was actually surprised. Something other than the books? She racked her mind for some other offense she could have possibly done. Mary did not wait in suspense for very long, however. Mrs. Bennet opened a book to the cover page and pointed to it.

James Latimer's name was signed on it in ink. Mary felt a frightened feeling tightening in the pit of her stomach. She did her best to omit nothing, however.

"This is who you've been getting such books from?" Mrs. Bennet shrieked, "That horrid American?"

Mary said nothing.

"Answer me! Answer me, you useless thing!" Mrs. Bennet slapped her over the face. It was the first time Mary had been hit by her mother and stared at her in shock… and broke.

"Yes, madam, he is."

"Even Lydia's actions were desirable able as compared to this," Mrs. Bennet seethed through clenched teeth, seizing Mary's shoulders, "Americans and un-Christian books. the world shall never know about you! You shall disappear, Mary. Your father was right all along, you were a mistake."

"You are not my mother," Mary hardly dared to breath. Mrs. Bennet was even frightening when she was so angry—the angriest Mary had ever seen her. Mary knew she would not win this time.

Mrs. Bennet had half turned away at the end of her speech, but then turned back, her face indescribable, "You say I am not your mother? Well, you are not my daughter!"

She slammed Mary's head into the wall and stormed out of the room, locking the door. Mary felt a little dizzy and her head ached horribly, but she forced herself rigid and tried the door. It truly was locked. She stumbled to her bed, the world was fuzzy and swaying back and forth in a maddening rhythm. She buried her throbbing head in her pillow and cried the first tears of her life in eight years.

Mrs. Bennet was true to her word. The door was only unlocked when Mrs. Hall brought her meals. Each time, she sat perfectly straight in her desk chair, her face frozen in an emotionless countenance, as not to omit any feeling. That was the one thing she happened to have in her favor. Mary was determined they should get no reaction out of her. She wasn't so sure she would be successful, either. How many more days could she take of this immense boredom?

As a child, Mary complained of her chores like most children do. Now, she would have killed to be able to mend an apron, or wash dishes, or do the laundry, just for something to _do _other than read, stare out the window, and pace back and forth with no other company than her mad thoughts.

_I shall not be suppressed. I will remain who I am. They may lock my physical body up, but not my mind,_ she thought over and over.

In her last resort, she began writing a novel. Her heroine? A sixteen year old girl, Alice Strider with a questionable disposition. And the more Mary thought about it, the more she realized Alice was more of a victim than a heroine. The story was about a girl whose mind gets warped by insanity and her diary starts answering back to her. She becomes obsessed with it, and soon having actual conversations with it. Then, the book tells her to murder her parents—which she does. Confused and horrified, Alice falls deeper and deeper into madness, before she is finally arrested and sentenced to be hanged.

Mary decided to write it in first person. It would be a confession written by Alice Strider in the confinement in her prison cell the day before she would die. Mary had little confidence in her writing, but it didn't matter—it was merely to pass time:

"_And the most frightening entity yet was that over the noise of the storm, a clear, crisp, sobbing noise could be heard from downstairs. The sound of a weeping child. Upon hearing it, my body went absolutely rigid where I lay. Was it merely a sound out of my imagination? Or was it the ghost of a murdered child, now haunting the place? Or course, reason argued the former. Ghosts did not exist. But how could I so soon forget the latter? How could such a _bona fide_ sound be all in my head? It sounded as perfectly clear as my own breathing and the thunder above."_

But she soon ran out of ink and could not retrieve any more from Mr. Bennet's office. She therefore was forced to shove it in a drawer where it would stay for some time, her mind absolutely forgetting about it.

She wondered if James knew what had happened to her. Were there any of his books still in the window box? Mary was certain that if Mrs. Bennet ever saw him at Longbourn she would likely pick Mr. Bennet's musket up and shoot him herself. Well, that would be some amusement. Amusement—something Mary had not had for a very long time indeed.

With each minute seeming more like ten, it was hard to keep track of the days. While Mary felt herself going gray and dying, it had hardly been a fortnight by the time she was brashly interrupted by a clanking noise on her window.

Mary had been currently lying on the floor, simply staring at the ceiling, not thinking. For if she did think, her mind would become as broken as Alice Strider's was. _Perhaps to write of madness one must experience it first,_ she thought. _So, am I mad?_

Upon first hearing the noise, she wondered if her mind had finally come undone. To make sure, she rose from the floor and examined the window. A rock came flying out of nowhere and hit the glass again, while bouncing off and then joining its predecessor in the garden below. Mary did sigh in relief. Rocks were simply being hurled at her window—she was not imagining it.

She looked down to see James Latimer standing beneath her window, and the sight of him was almost as alien to her as if he were wearing a jester's outfit and not his usual regular trousers and shirt. Mary did not stare for long but simply unlatched the window and opened it, slightly peeking her head out so he could see her.

"Miss Bennet!" he called up to her, his usual large, unnecessary grin playing on his face, his eyes blue as ever.

"If Mrs. Bennet finds you here, she will quite literally kill you," Mary warned him.

The evening was fading into night, and as the darkness set in and the moon rose, she could only barely make out anything on the horizon. _Well, bother the horizon, my biggest problem is standing in the back garden._

"Let her try," James countered, glancing around before looking up to meet her gaze again, "And tell me you haven't gone back on your word and have decided to stop reading my books, now."

"Would it really matter if I did?" Mary demanded, "No, Mrs. Bennet found them! And she saw your name in them, too! So you had better get out of here! I've not left this room in weeks and doubt I ever will again. It was agreeable meeting you, sir, good day!"

She reached to close the window, but he shouted again, "Miss Bennet! Please, don't go yet. We've yet to finish our conversation."

"What else is there to say?" Mary wanted to know, looking at him.

"Many things," James kicked a rock, "There are many things to say. In fact, get quite used to me, because there will never _not_ be anything to say between us. What I have to say topically is this: Are you the girl I met that summer afternoon in my aunt's parlor or not? Because I don't see her anywhere."

"Stop being ridiculous," she sighed, rubbing her temples, "Of course I am she, who else would I be?"

"_That _Miss Bennet was a lot harder to beat, I can assure you, madam," James said coldly, "_That _Miss Bennet did not care if she was alone in the world. _That _Miss Bennet needed no one else's approval. _That _Miss Bennet was willing push anyone's limits. _That _Miss Bennet was one of the few people I could respect."

Mary felt oddly hurt by his words. She had been spoken to coldly all her life, but somehow it was worse when such a tone came from James's mouth. Somehow his blue eyes made her feel guilty for the first time in her life. Somehow they made her feel so sad she wanted to burst into tears right there. Somehow they made her feel as weak as a newborn infant. And somehow she couldn't look away.

"I do not need anyone's approval," Mary began slowly, "And I certainly do not need yours. Have a good evening, Mr. Latimer."

She closed the window and put out her candle so she was sure he could not see in—that he would only see a dark window. Mary took heavy steps to her bed and fell onto it on her back, staring up at the white ceiling.

Another rock it the window, but she ignored it. Two more. Four more. After the fifth rock, no more followed. James Latimer had left. Her whole body was trembling with emotion. Excess emotion, in which she had no idea what to do with. She pushed her hands together in attempt to still them. She thought over the last conversation.

"And I certainly do not need yours," Mary repeated aloud, her voice breaking the immense silence of the room, "I certainly do not need yours."

Had she gone mad? Mary could not honestly say. The only thing she _could _honestly say was that her last statement was a complete and utter lie. Who was she kidding? It was only in an effort to convince herself, really. She_ did _need James Latimer's approval. As soon as she let herself think it, she was utterly horrified with herself. What did bloody James Latimer matter at all?

Well, had she not considered him a friend? A friend's approval is always wanted, right? _No, _she thought, _this pondering is absurd! I most certainly do not love James Latimer! …An American… No, it is not possible._

After assuring herself this, she reread what she had of her novel and decided it was total garbage and threw it back in her desk drawer. Rubbing the back of her head, Mary thought more on what James had said. Was she so different than when he had met her?

She stared at a crack on the wall and suddenly… everything fit together.

James was right! For her whole life Mary had taken pride in being likely the only girl in Hertfordshire with an actual backbone, and she was simply sitting in her chambers and accepting punishment like this? No! The old Mary Bennet would not have stood for it!

And the old Mary Bennet returned. She laughed out loud for the folly of Miss Bingley with cake in her face, and laughed when she thought of Lizzy's hopes for her and Mr. Ashby, and laughed when she thought of Mrs. Hall's fear of her, and laughed of the color of Mrs. Bennet's face when she had discovered James Latimer's books.

_Why, we do not even have a dye to color our wool that shade of purple!_ Mary could always laugh about things. Mary never cared about anyone else's opinion of her. How could she go mad when she had so much else going for her?

She fished a pencil out of her drawer and continued Alice Strider's story. When her pencil no longer sat so comfortably in her hand, she put it down. Smirking her "Mary Bennet" smirk in triumph, she silently thanked James Latimer and went to bed.

_Oh, I hope he forgives me…_

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Sorry kind of short. Please review.**


	6. Chapter 6

Title- Mary

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**__**4give4get**

**Rated- ****T**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Yup.**

**distorted realities-**** Thanks for the prediction, glad you liked the last chapter. :P**

**Thinkoutsidethebun07-**** Thanks so much for the review, don't worry about last chapter. You're a great reviewer! :P**

_Chapter Six…_

Mary Bennet. Unstoppable. Were the first words in her head when she woke up on that day. She jumped from bed, and ardently dressed herself in her favorite black gown. She put on her shoes for the first time in what seemed like ages and opened the window again.

She almost stopped. It had been many years since she'd climbed down from the window. She wasn't so sure that the tree branches could hold her weight, much after fourteen. Now she was nineteen…

Well, she was smaller than any of the other Bennet girls. With only this thought to comfort her, she stepped out of the window. Left foot first. She rested it on the tree limb, and it did not instantly give away and snap, so she was ever so slightly boosted by that much. Then her right foot. Still not all of her weight was on the branch, since she still sat on her windowsill.

_Well, here goes._

Mary reached for the trunk and caught it in her fingers. She did not fall, and lie broken on the garden below. But she still hardly dared to breathe. Of course, climbing Mrs. Coleman's rose trellis was nothing to the horrors of climbing out of a window and into a tree in which you were not one hundred percent sure could hold your weight. She cautiously climbed down, realizing that the limbs grew thicker the lower she went.

Unfortunately for Mary, it was impossible _not _to look down as that was the direction in which she was climbing. The ground moved beneath her, and it seemed like ages before she finally landed firmly on her two feet on solid earth. The feeling was so overwhelming that she even collapsed onto her knees for about a few seconds. Think on it though, the first time having been outside in so long…

Mary never appreciated the feel of grass between her fingers or wind in her hair so much. Quickly, as not to waste time, she ran, ducking beneath windows down to the path to Meryton. Once there, she flung open Mrs. Coleman's front door and cried out, "James Latimer!"

Mrs. Coleman was sitting in her parlor, with a bible in her hands and simply reading, the very picture of perfect womanly innocence. Upon Mary's appearance, she gasped in shock, putting her hand over her heart in displeasure. It only took two seconds for Mary to realize just what she had done.

"Many apologizes, madam," she breathed, walking towards the kitchen, "But where is your nephew?"

The poor woman was so surprised and blustered that she could do nothing but stare at her with eyes as large as eggs and pant heavily. Mary hoped she did not cause her to have a heart attack.

And then came James. His blue eyes scanned the scene of his aunt having a thrombosis and Mary standing there uneasily, wondering what to do about it. No smile decorated his face today. The usually happy person she knew was gone. Had she hurt him that much? Mary wondered if he would even hear her out, or just throw her out. Well, she would simply have to take her chances, she realized, because as James stood before her, he obviously planned on saying nothing.

Mary did not meet his eyes. She needed to be able to speak plainly, so she simply fixed her eyes on his feet instead. They were rather normal looking feet. Nothing special or unusual about them.

"I… er, I would like to apologize, and sincerely apologize and act contrite for the transgression I, er, _committed_…"

She was interrupted before completion, however, "Stop," Mary looked up to see James was smiling as brightly as ever, "This is _far _to painful to listen to. You don't apologize often, do you, Miss Bennet?"

"Perhaps not," Mary began, but then smiled (as Mary ever smiles) just happy to realize that James was no longer angry with her for her behavior the night before regarding her punishments from Mrs. Bennet. So she did not even mind when he mocked her loss at words.

"Miss Bennet?" she looked up, and oh no, he looked serious again. She cringed, she should have known that she would not get off the hook so easily.

"Yes, Mr. Latimer?" she asked, returning her line of vision to his average-looking feet.

"I have new books for you," he said, and Mary looked into his face to see that the smile had come back.

.x.X.x.

And do not be mistaken and think that Mary got away with sneaking out of her room. Indeed, it did not go unnoticed. Mrs. Bennet had no actual proof that she had gone to Mrs. Coleman's, but she could put two and two together. In response, Mary's windows were boarded over and nailed shut.

In response to that, Mary spent all day using her sewing scissors to pull the nails out and saw through the boards. She was determined to show that no one could lock her up like so. Mrs. Bennet caught her at that too (although too late) and screamed until Mr. Bennet consented to put real metal bars on the inside of her windows. For this, Mary would stick her finger through the bars to unlatch the window and then push it open as best she could. James climbed up the tree in the dead of night and handed her books through the bars.

Unfortunately, both Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Bennet frequently unlocked the door and checked on her. And when they would, they would search her room for anything that had not been there before. Mary was caught more than not. And the books were thrown on the fireplace. Of course, Mary warned James of this, but he kept giving them to her anyway. It was something she would never understand for the rest of her life.

It was impossible to say who was really winning. As fast as Mrs. Bennet was burning them, Mary kept getting new ones to read. And the fire blazed strong. _The Age of Reason,_ by Thomas Paine—burned. _Candide,_ by Voltaire—burned. _An Apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela Andrews_, by Henry Fielding—burned. _A Treatise of Human Nature, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, _and _An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals_, all by David Hume—burned. _Juliette,_ by the Marquess de Sade—burned. _Leviathan,_ by Thomas Hobbes—burned. _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman,_ by Mary Wollstonecraft—burned.

Somehow, once she had started, Mary could never allow herself to stop. She grew thinner and paler. Her health had never been robust by a long shot, but now it was truly dire. Her thin hair fell limp, and her gowns were baggy and often drooped off of her shoulders. She was hardly given anything to eat, and no sunlight touched her skin. But it hardly mattered. Her body had never been strong. She had always had her mind instead. And while her body died away, her mind stayed fresh as ever.

One day, while Mrs. Hall triumphantly walked in carrying a tray of food, she also placed a sealed envelope on her desk in front of her. Mary was determined to simply stare at the wall in front of her until the woman left, the lock clicking into place. As soon as she was gone, Mary quickly got up (as quickly as her little strength would allow) and snatched the letter up. It was from Lizzy.

_What could _she _possibly want with me?_ Mary wondered if it had anything to do with Mr. Ashby… Or perhaps about her behavior at Pemberly towards Miss Bingley? Mary ripped the letter open, the task having taken longer than usual, but finally read the letter:

_My Dear Little Sister,_

She had only read the first line and already Mary was snorting in distaste. Mary was about as dear to Lizzy as a nasty headache and she knew it.

_Our mother has written me about your current quandary in vehement discontentment. I know not what has started this abhorrent phase with you, but do ask, as your sister, that you hinder these faults and become the presentable lady you could become. Perceptibly, the Bennet family name has undergone quite enough on behalf of Lydia's elopement and now the third daughter locked away upstairs with a bag over her head. I cannot imagine you will have any qualms upon hearing this, and know that I only intend to help. I believe I have felt embarrassed for this family sufficiently and it is time you fulfill that much._

_Your Loving Sister,_

_-L. Darcy_

Mary crumbled the note and threw it at the wall, it only bounced back to hit her in the forehead before landing on her desk in front of her. Just because Lizzy felt embarrassed about their family didn't mean Mary had to! Mary chuckled, and then full-out laughed. She laughed until she fell out of her seat and was simply lying face down on the floor and laughing like a madwoman. Footsteps could be heard on the stairs and the door was unlocked and flung open.

Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Hall both stood in the doorway staring at her. Her laughter grew shrill and even odd to her own ears. She sat herself up, her hair still tousled and gleamed up at her jailers, "What is it, madam?"

Mrs. Bennet was paler than usual, but stared down at her daughter in utter horror. A horror-stricken face worthy of an Ann Radcliff novel. Mary's legs were twisted together on the ground, and the only thing supporting her body were her thin, trembling arms. Both women took a step back and slammed the door. Mary smiled.

_That's what I thought..._

In an instant, Mary realized how insane she must have looked. Truly mad! Indeed, the confinement had taken a horrible toll on her mental health, but it was not truly gone. She coaxed herself over and over again to think reasonably and eventually managed to bring herself back to sanity. She could not loose her mind—of that she was utterly determined.

The next morning, Mrs. Bennet came into the room, looking serious, but nothing worse. Mary did not look at her, but only stared ahead. Mrs. Bennet sat next to her on the bed and took a deep breath.

"Mary," she began, looking at her, but her glances got no replies, "I have spoken with Mr. Bennet on this issue," Mary noticed that whatever "issue" she was speaking of, she did not mention which one, "And decided that it would be best to send you away."

Upon hearing _this, _she turned to face Mrs. Bennet. Her eyes were dark, and there was nothing of the cheerful, talkative woman she had once been. Mary frowned, "Send me away?" she repeated, "Where to you plan to send me, madam?"

Mrs. Bennet swallowed, "An… institution." She allowed, vaguely.

"By that you mean an asylum?" Mary corrected harshly.

The woman vehemently shook her head, "No, not at all. It is only that you are quite out of the control of poor Mrs. Hall and myself—"

Mary interrupted her, "Oh, yes! Poor Mrs. Hall! I am going to be sent to an asylum!" she stood up and stared into Mrs. Bennet's frightened eyes, and then sat back down and quickly calmed her voice, "Madam, I am not insane," she said it in a perfectly even voice.

But Mrs. Bennet only stood up and left the room.

The very next morning, she was assured out of her chambers by men she had never seen before, and locked in a carriage below with only a thin opening for a window. As she passed through her childhood home, Mary wondered if it would indeed be the last time she ever saw it. She remembered having returning from Pemberly and thinking on how much she abhorred it. How little did she know back then! Before her body had been starved and weakened, before such a toll had been taken on her mental health… Before she realized that there were much worse places than Longbourn.

The last Mary saw of Longbourn was the amazed stare of Mr. Bennet standing on the front steps. It felt unreal to be finally out of her chamber, but yet terrifying when she realized just where she would be going.

Mary did not cry. She simply hugged her thin, trembling knees to her chest and swallowed deeply. She had not broken after all of those weeks of confinement and she was determined that she would not break at this… _institution._ Whatever sort of place it was, in that horrible carriage ride, Mary swore to live past this chapter of her life.

The carriage jostled her, and using her thin window of sunlight she saw that they were passing through Meryton. As they did, Mary thought of James. Would he notice she was gone? Would he wonder what had happened to her? Mary liked to think that he would, but wasn't entirely sure. She shrugged those thoughts off—she had more important matters on her mind than James Latimer.

Mary attempted to image what it could possibly be like. Like a prison. That thought did not frighten her. Where she had come from was practically a prison, was it not? Locked up all day and all night? Except this time, she would not be in the protection of her own home. She would be like any other inmate. This would likely be worse.

And yet, Mary was completely prepared for worse. She thought the word "worse" (for indeed, worse it would be, how could it not be?) without a single prick of fear in her heart. If the reader has not yet picked up on this much, I shall spell it out for you: It took a lot to frighten Mary Bennet. Likely five times more than it took to frighten any average nineteen-year-old girl of the time. Her heart was stronger, her disposition sharper, and her judgment quicker. Therefore, if a nineteen year old girl were to be sent to an asylum (as Mary was) then you must make no mistake in believing that our heroine is positively the best possible heroine to have in such a dire time in a story.

She held her chin high, and continued to watch the landscape pass. From what she could tell, they were mostly heading north and somewhat east. Although, Mary did not pretend to have an internal compass as some do. For all she knew, they could be going south-west, so she did not set much store by her estimates of direction. As the half-moon rose in the sky, the carriage stopped, and the doors were thrown open.

One of the men, possibly thirty-ish, with a large nose, sneered at her and tossed her a single roll the size of her fist. He watched her eat it, and when she was done, she spoke up in her best tone.

"Excuse me, sir," she began, "But it would appear to me that I must inform you that I have got a single bodily function in to which I must acquiesce."

He stared at her oddly, as if she were speaking French and not perfectly plain English, but then suddenly cackled an odd laugh and spat his tobacco into the grass below his boots. Mary noted that if Lizzy or Jane were in her position they would be beside themselves with fear at such a un-gentlemanlike man. Mary regarded him with her usual cold indifference.

"Ye mean ye got ter piss?" he questioned, wiping saliva from his lip.

"In a forward way of placing it, yes," Mary answered him, not letting her chin droop a single centimeter.

""At's fine," he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the carriage, her legs popped at the knee and struggled under her weight. Her feet lightly touched the grass and she felt she might blow away in the wind, or perhaps his rough hand would snap the bone in her arm in half. Mary also noticed the form of another man caring for the horses. Mary could see that he only had a gray beard in the dark. The first man walked her a few ways away from the carriage and motioned for her to carry on.

She stared up at him in horror, "I will do no such thing in front of you!" she insisted, trying to keep from doubling over.

"Well, then ye don't need ter piss that bad, do ye, missy?" the man snapped, more saliva flying from his mouth. Luckily, none of it happened to land on her face.

"Honestly, sir," Mary began again, "To where would I run away? I know not even where we are! I tell you what," she began to attempt to loosen his hand on her, but he just tightened it, causing her to all but gasp in pain, "What if I go behind that bush, and promptly take care of this… _essential _and return straightforwardly back in this exact spot?"

"No dice," was all the tobacco chewing man replied with.

"Alright, if you are indeed disinclined to the proposition, what do you suggest?"

He looked at her with watery blue eyes and then picked up a bit of rope off of the ground and showed it to her, "I tie this 'round your wrist, an' then ye may take all of the time ye need be'ind the bush."

Mary did not like it, but really did need to pee and finally acquiesced to his proposal and allowed him to tie the rope about her thin wrist. She limped as quickly as she could to the said bush, and squatted down out of his view to do her business. By the time she walked back, her legs were so worn out, she could barely stand, let alone walk, so when the man viciously grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the carriage again, it was almost welcome, because she need to use little of her own strength.

He tossed her a canteen of water, from which she ardently drank. Ere long, she quickly fell asleep on the hard floor of the carriage. Mary heard a distant howling in the forest beyond, just before she nodded off completely.

_Bloody wolves…_

.x.X.x.

The next day was quite similar to the first. The continued down the country road, and Mary was neither fed, nor allowed to pee until they stopped again at night. It was not so uncomfortable, however. Since she was given so little to eat, there was not much in the way of anything coming out, either.

The second man was older—about fifty she would guess and had no teeth. From what she could tell, the younger, tobacco-chewing one was called Jack, and the older, toothless one was called Porter—it must have been a surname.

It was on the evening of the third day that they arrived at their destination. Mary knew exactly where they were now. London. Of course, Mary had never seen London before, and when she imagined she would, she was never as an asylum-bound lunatic. But the sight perked her interests all the same. She looked out the window at all of the busy crowded streets in awe, for it was nothing as compared to Meryton.

The streets and buildings were mostly gray. The fog in the air was gray. If Mary was to use one word to describe London, she would have picked, "gray." And so many people! Mary wondered if perhaps everyone in London were all out on this particular street at once. But then she contradicted herself when they turned onto another street equally as crowded. And then another!

She would have liked to stop and actually commit to memory the things she saw as the carriage passed through the city, but that was impossible. The carriage passed swiftly through the streets, the horses' hooves skirting through the mud on the cobblestone. They passed through in a hurry. Finally, Porter called, "Whoa," and the horses slowed to a walk, and then eventually a rather sudden stop, flinging Mary's limp, light body about.

She heard Jack and Porter climb down among the other noises of the London street and then heard the sound of the lock's clicking noise as it unclasped. Jack reached for her and dragged her from the confinement of the carriage, while Porter took her other arm as they led her up the stairs to a tall, dismal stone building. Bars blocked each and every window.

Mary looked wildly about the street full of people and carriages. No one seemed to find her that interesting. No one even looked at her once, much less a second time. And as felt her own weak body between that of Jack and Porter, she knew that a new chapter of her life was beginning, and this one more likely than not, would be worse than its predecessor.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Thanks for reading, please review.**


	7. Chapter 7

Title- Mary

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated- ****T**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Thanks for reading.**

**Thinkoutsidethebun07-**__**Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank for saying I'm a good writer, it means a lot! :P**

**pottergirls-**** Thanks for the compliments and thanks for reading.**

**mabel-**** Why not?**

_Chapter Seven…_

The gentle reader must now know that as the author, I will not leave out one single horror of the many Mary Bennet faced in a London asylum in 1811. At the time, England was considered one of the few modern countries, seeing as it actually _had _a facility for mental health, or the lack, thereof. But in 1811 these facilities were little more than prisons and torture chambers, these "doctors" convinced that the insane were not human.

The last thing Mary saw of the outside world was a small orphan boy shining shoes for a penny on the street—she was then ushered into the cheerless, dismal, stone building that whose sign read plainly, "Haddock's Insane Asylum." No candy coating.

"They do not put forth a very fastidious veneer, do they?" Mary questioned, conversationally, but both Jack and Porter did not seem to understand what she was saying.

The inside resembled the exterior of the building on the dismal note. An office on the first floor was their first stop. A pale, thin man with beady eyes stood by the window and turned to see them enter. He did not smile—indeed his disposition seemed quite incapable of it, and hardly acknowledged Jack and Porter by a slight inclination of the head. The suit he wore was simple, drab, and black, it did not say much about his character. He had long, dark sideburns on each side of his face, but was so thin Mary could make out his cheekbones nonetheless. As an estimate, she considered him to be perhaps forty years old.

"Evenin' guv'nor," Jack greeted him, shoving Mary foreword and leaving her to catch herself by way of the man with the sideburn's desk. Slowly, as if in a dream, Mary looked up and met the man's cold, unfeeling eyes. She realized one would have to be cold and unfeeling to work in such a place.

"This is the new girl?" he questioned, looking down at Mary's slight form and the dark circles under her eyes.

"She is."

"Her size is small, what is her age?" the man posed the question.

Both men shrugged and then all three looked to Mary to answer it. She wondered what would happen if she just didn't speak. They'd likely think her even more insane. She tried to straighten up her body and stand normally, but she found she had not the strength to lift herself off of the desk.

"Nineteen," she swallowed and answered them.

"So much?" the man looked back to the window and out on the gray streets of London. Mary noticed the nameplate on the desk that read, Hiram Yates. _So that must be his name._

"And her case?" he continued, facing Jack and Porter again. His voice was deep and gravelly—exceedingly unfriendly.

"I don't know, do I?" Jack protested, "The lady just said ter come an' we did, didn't we?"

"Indeed," Yates looked back down at Mary and his pale face seemed to study her own, his eyes moving back and forth, "She looks the very image of trouble, would you call such an accusation unfounded?"

"Not at all, guv'nor. All lip she was the way 'ere."

"Her eyes are intelligent and unhealthy looking," he noted, "We had, for our best interests, keep her under out eye at all times," as he said this, he looked right at her, and Mary felt an emotion in which she was not very familiar. Real, actual fear.

"Yes, guv'nor," Jack answered, and he and porter both dragged her up two flights of stairs.

The hallway was long and dark and simply full of doors with small, bared windows on the top. Through these windows, Mary could see pale, wide-eyed girls shivering, curled up in corners, some crying silently, others whispering things under their breath. The walls of the hall seemed to bear memory of all of the horrors it had witnessed and sagged alike the prisoners. The very building itself was miserable. Mary did not even count how many doors they passed before Porter retrieved a key from his waistcoat pocket and opened one of the doors and shoved her in. The door slammed shut with a bang that chilled her straight to the core.

Mary stumbled forewords and had no desk to fall upon this time. Her cheek slapped the hard floor, bloodying her lip. The cell she was in, echoed with the sound of slow, steady breathing. As she picked her head off of the ground, she saw that she was now cellmates with four other girls. Two huddled together in the corner, their body racking in sobs of fear.

One girl stood above her, looking down with a hard, dirt-smudged face. The girl's golden hair was long and shaggy, reaching down her back and her eyes were a dead shade of sea green. Her face was the same deadly pale as all of the inhabitants of Haddock's.

She looked at Mary with a stern eye, her mouth in a straight line. As Mary pushed herself and against the wall, the girl's face broke into a small smile. The smile was not insane as the gentle reader might image—but the smile of a normal girl.

"A new girl?" she questioned, cocking her head to one side.

Mary wasn't sure how to answer. Wasn't the girl insane? Or perhaps wrongly accused, like herself? She nodded her head.

"Catalina Bradford," the girl introduced herself, "And we hope you enjoy your stay at Hades Insane Asylum."

"Hades?" Mary repeated.

"Yes—that is what the girls here call it. And with good reason, too," Catalina smiled again and sat before Mary, "You do not seem mindless as the others. What is it with you?"

"My parents simply disapprove of me," Mary sniffed, turning her head away.

"That is the way with most of the girls in Hades," her new blonde friend nodded, "Too free of a mind, perhaps? I wish I could say it was the same case with me."

"What is your case?" Mary leaned closer to the girl.

"I hear voices," she said it lightly, "Most of the time I'm perfectly normal, just every now and then… I'll hear them."

Mary's mouth opened in a gape of awe. What a place? These sort of things aren't even in horror novels! The truly gruesome truth hit her in the face so hard, she was stunted for all of about five seconds. Indeed, it was five seconds before she could speak again.

"And them?" she asked Catalina, pointing to the two trembling girls in the far corner of their cell.

"Them?" Catalina repeated, shaking her head in sorrow, "I don't know their names, but that's pretty much all they do. Their minds are broken and unhinged. And they've been like that since as long as I've been here."

"And her?" Mary pointed to the fourth and last girl in the cell. She had frizzy dark hair, completely matted and dark eyes. Her jawbone was largely defined and she looked at Mary harshly once she realized she was being addressed.

"I'll thank you not to speak to me like I am not even here," she snapped, glaring at them both.

"That is Sarah Newberry… well, except for when she's Nina Parker. A double personality, you see, but perfectly sane otherwise," Catalina giggled.

"Oh, yes, perfectly sane," Mary muttered.

"I shall tell you how to tell Sarah apart from Nina," she continued, "Nina speaks with an East London accent."

"But I've never heard an East London accent," Mary reminded her.

"Trust me," Catalina winked, "You will know it when you hear it."

Life at Haddock's was… interesting. One of the first things Mary noticed was that each of the girls' bare feet was bloody and scared. She did not feel the need to ask why, for some reason. The girls spent most of their day locked up. The asylum was mostly to keep the insane away from the general population.

There were "doctors." They were stern old men, much like Yates. They often pulled specific girls aside and harshly interrogated them, while taking notes on their "progress." Mary had yet to have this happen to her. Meals were served in the mess hall and consisted of room-temperature porridge and hardtack.

And Mary ate the porridge and the hardtack. Nothing revolted her anymore. The porridge was hard and gritty and more often than not had live mealworms wiggling in it. And Mary ate them too. Soon, she no longer spat the flies and maggots out of the hardtack but simply chewed them as well.

"No one remains a picky eater for long in Hades," Catalina commented, plucking a squirming mealworm out of her bowl and placing it in her mouth.

After meals, most of the girls were given materials to knit socks and caps. Luckily, Mary learned to knit at nine years old. And I say "luckily" because Haddock's seemed to be the place where the less you said to the guards, the better. She instantly picked up the knitting needles and rough, thick yarn as Catalina did, next to her on the bench.

"And this, New Girl, is the government's solution on labor. Ours is free!" Catalina laughed, and Mary looked at her oddly, not finding it so funny. She seemed to notice this.

"Well, if you prefer to be a little rebel, I suggest you sew the toes shut, or make the sock impossibly large, or impossibly small," the blonde girl told her, pointing at Mary's beginnings of a sock with her own needle.

"Is that what you do?" Mary asked, untangled a knot she accidentally made from not paying attention to the yarn.

Catalina nodded, "But it was Sarah's idea. Clever Sarah," she elbowed Sarah Newberry who sat beside her on her other side, knitting her own sock.

"Or," Sarah spoke to Mary for the first time, "You can leave one of the small sharp needles inside it, and let someone poke their toe on it. Let them have a nice cut down there," Mary observed her sticking a needle in the toe from the outside.

"You are evil, Sarah Newberry," Catalina laughed. By now, Mary had analyzed both of their characters for the most part. Catalina was the laugh-herself-through-her-sorrow-type, and even when she was absolutely miserable, she would smile and laugh about it. How else could a girl laugh so much in a place that was nicknamed "Hades" by its inhabitants? Sarah was snubbed by the whole world, and therefore decided to be mean back to it—that was the only explanation Mary could find. And as for Nina Parker… Mary had yet to find out about her.

"What did you say your name was again, New Girl?" Catalina asked, conversationally.

"I didn't," Mary looked at her dead, green eyes, and wondered if soon her face would be just as smeared with dirt and have such a gray tone to her skin as the girl before her. She introduced herself and named from where she came.

A tall girl with brown, lank hair looked over at them from where she sat across the table. She was slightly less thin than the rest and her cheeks still had a tad of color left. She turned to Catalina.

"Did you say, _New Girl?_" she asked.

Catalina looked deep into Mary's eyes, as if in apology and then looked back to the tall girl and swallowed so loudly Mary could hear her doing it, "Yes."

Now the whole room was looking right at Mary, who felt her sweaty palms loosen their grip on her "sock" and listened to the clatter of the needles on the floor beneath her. Each and every girl stood up and began sort of circling around the table in which she sat. Suddenly, Catalina got up too, except she ran out of the circle and to the door, leaving her there, surrounded by pale, thin, malnourished, girls dressed in nothing but rags and their matted, tangled hair. Their almost lifeless eyes bore into her.

The tall girl climbed over the table and hit Mary so hard in the mouth, that for a second she thought that perhaps her jaw had become disconnected from her skull and blood flooding her mouth. She spat it all out—her dyed red saliva. And that was only the beginning. Each and every girl in the room seemed to want a piece of her. They slapped her and pinched her and kicked and punched and worse. Each hit hurt worse than its predecessor, and by the time only one girl stood before her, Mary could feel bruises forming on her face and body and how blood was smeared all over her face.

The girl in front of her was a dark form of Sarah Newberry. The girl looked at her with an emotionless expression, before grabbing Mary by her hair and slamming her forehead into the table. It knocked her all but senseless, and Mary coughed several mouthfuls of blood out. Her head was throbbing and the mess hall swayed back and forth.

With no longer the strength or the will to stand, she let herself fall to the ground and lay there, staring at the blurry cracked ceiling. Now the girls all cleared out and sat back down in their original seats, knitting, as if nothing had ever happened. Mary felt a cool hand on her painful forehead. It was Catalina.

Mary felt utterly betrayed. _That was to be expected—why would someone like her be on my side?_ she thought. She pushed Catalina's hand away.

"Why did you let them do that to me?" she demanded, trying to sit back up.

Catalina pulled her the rest of the way up, and held her by her shoulder. When Mary looked into her dead, green eyes, she saw that they were actually filled with remorse, "It was for your own good, you know, Mary."

"My own good?" she repeated blankly, "How could that have possibly been for my own good?"

Catalina looked deep into her face and half-smiled, "There are all on your side, Mary," she gestured to the mess hall full of the girls who had been attacking her a second ago, "That is what they do to every new girl—to help."

"How is that help?" Mary wanted to know, speaking in a relatively sour tone.

"It is so you won't break," Catalina explained sheepishly, "We do not want you to—we beat you so you won't break."

Mary stared at her in shock, her mouth open in a gape of utter awe. It _did _sort of make sense in a sick way… Honestly, it sounded more like a Marques de Sade novel than real life. Or perhaps that was just it—Marques de Sade wrote of the horrors of real life, and if the ignorant, narrow-minded upper class would rather not read them and keep themselves small and in their own perfect fairy-tale world, that was fine with him. He wrote only the truth—the harsh, bloody, vulgar, unjust _truth_.

And what better heroine to have in a novel similar that of Marques de Sade than ours: Mary Bennet? Mary Bennet who was impossible to beat? Mary Bennet who did not need anyone else's kindness? Mary Bennet who was well informed of the ways of the world, unlike most other people (women in particular) of her class and status? And the gentle reader will find that characters like her do make the best of heroines because they tend to actually live to see the end of the novel.

As Mary will.

"I understand, Catalina," Mary said, and struggled (not without the help of her new friend) back to her seat on the bench and retrieved her "sock" and needles from the floor. As the girls knit, Mary looked up once to meet Sarah's dark eyes, as she slipped a small, sharp needle into her sock.

x.X.x.

Of course, on her first day, Mary did not fully soak in the realization that she was locked in an asylum, most likely for the rest of her life. It did however, hit her in just the fashion I have described to the gentle reader upon the next morning.

Mary, Catalina, Sarah, and the two other mindless and nameless girls slept on the hard floor of their cell. Mary's stomach was constantly growling with hunger pains, and she accepted that those feelings of hunger would simply be her regular companion from then forth. As she slumped against the wall of the cell, brooding over her situation, she watched her cellmates in their fitful slumber.

She would never see daylight again. She would never see Kitty or Lydia again. Or even Lizzy or Jane. Oh, for god's sake, not even Mr. and Mrs. Bennet! In fact, the only people she _would _see was thin, pale girls with questionable mental health. _Well, I'll never see Mr. Ashby again,_ Mary thought, chuckling at that much. She would spend the rest of her natural life knitting socks and eating one meal a day of porridge, hardtack, maggots, and mealworms.

And Mary's body grew weaker yet. As the gentle reader most likely knows, Mary's body was never particularly strong. No, even in her best of health she was small and childlike in appearance. After her confinement to her chamber in Longbourn, she had lost at least five kilograms. By a few weeks in Haddock's she had easily lost another five. Her pale skin grew paler. Her hair grew as tangled and matted as any other resident of Haddock's.

One night, Mary was woken from what restless doze she had managed to fall into by someone shaking her awake. She forced open her bleary eyes and looked into the terrified face of Catalina. She rubbed her eyes and gentle held on to her friend's shoulder as she sat herself up.

"Cat—" Mary began but the girl's shriek interrupted her first.

"Mary!" her whole body began to tremble and her breathing was labored. Her eyes somehow no longer looked dead, but rather full of life. Too full. Her green eyes began to roll back into her skull, exposing only the bloodshot eye whites. In it all, Catalina gripped Mary's arms, digging her nails into her flesh as she had her fit.

"What on earth is happening?" Mary cried, and as she expected, did not get any reply of sane nature.

"The voices," Catalina whispered, "I can hear them…." She broke off into a blood curdling scream, that left Mary's ears ringing. Tears poured from her eyes now, "They say _horrible _things, Mary, you have to understand…" her eyes rolled back again and she let loose a similar scream, "No! No! _NO!"_

Mary could not take her eyes off of her, but nor could she make any movement with her body. She was completely frozen.

"Mary…" Catalina begged her, "The voices are going to come _here_. Tonight!"

"No, they are not, Catalina," Mary told her firmly, after clearing her throat, "Now go back to sleep."

But she did not go back to sleep. She continued to clutch Mary's arms and go in and out of screaming fits, where her eyes would roll back again. The two nameless girls in the corner hissed at her like cats, but Mary just glared at them, causing them to cower some more.

"Sarah, what should I do?" Mary asked frantically, knowing that no one could possibly sleep over such a racket.

The voice that came from Sarah's usual spot, Mary did not recognize, "Why ask 'er? She don't know nothin' 'bout fits, ike 'at."

Sarah Newberry sat perfectly rigid and looked calmly at Mary, smiling warmly, "Jus' let 'er get it out o' 'er system."

Mary stared in similar shock to when she regarded Catalina. She forced her lips apart and tried to bring her voice out of her stomach, "Nina?" she asked, the sound of her voice clear above the screams, bouncing off of the cell's walls.

"Yes, Mary?" Nina asked kindly, cocking her head to the side.

"You really are a double personality," Mary breathed in awe.

Nina nodded.

Marques de Sade never wrote of anything like this. But Mary had little time to ponder in amazement as such a thing. She needed to help Catalina first. She looked down at her, and held her face in both of her hands, forcing her to look at her.

"Catalina Bradford," she began firmly, "You do not hear voices. Do you know why that is? Because there are no voices. In fact, the only voice you hear is mine, because I am the only one in this cell speaking."

And suddenly, those lively green eyes died again, into their dull, sullen, sea green. The sea green Mary was used to. Catalina gulped a breath of air and wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve.

After such an event, Mary was quite sure nothing would ever surprise her in life again. She began to grow even restless. The more time she spent locked in that gray prison called Haddock's, the more she felt she might be losing her mind. She stole a needle, tucking it into her skirt once. And with it, she carved words into the walls of her cell. Words and pictures. It was sort of a game she played with herself—how she kept herself from completely losing her mind.

She constantly thought of Longbourn. And of Pemberly. Did Jane, Lizzy, and Kitty know what had happened to her? To where she had been sent? Did Mrs. Bennet ever feel any sort of remorse for where she had sent her own daughter? Did Mr. Bennet ever regret allowing such a thing? Somehow Mary knew that, all of her sisters knew (Kitty having told Lydia) where she was. And Lizzy and Jane likely had thoughts similar to Mrs. Bennet's—that it was for her own good. And something told Mary that Mr. Bennet cared nothing of her, or what became of her. He had said himself that she was a mistake.

_He does not like me—but no matter,_ she told herself, to keep her tears back, I _like myself. _She carved the end of the story of Alice Strider. Whenever anyone would read it, perhaps any patient in this cell with a slightly sane mind who would be put here in the future, most likely long after she had died, would likely make no sense of it, since the entire beginning and middle of the story lay gathering dust in the drawers of Mary's desk at Longbourn.

The day she finished it, the cell door was suddenly forced open and a man who looked rather similar to Hiram Yates stood in the doorway, and proclaimed, "Mary Bennet?"

Mary looked back at the wall in which she had been writing on and reread her last sentence:

'_And I pen this tale now, for tomorrow I die, but not my story. That shall live on in the wake of this very cell. Tomorrow I die, and my memory will haunt this earth forever. –Alice Strider'_

She then looked back to the man, and pitifully crawled to her feet, for lack of any strength to stand up any other way. The man led her down the hallway (slamming the door closed behind them) and sparked up a conversation.

"Do you know who I am, Mary?" he asked, pushing her forward to walk ahead of him. Obviously, he felt an authority to just manhandle people at his will.

"I should think not," Mary answered stiffly, "I have never seen you before in my life."

"Quite so," the man agreed, "But you mistake my question, do you know what sort of person I am?"

"No."

"My name is Dr. Moore. I am a doctor, do you know what that is, Mary?" he spoke to her carefully and slowly, as if she were roughly five years old.

"Of course I know what a doctor is!" Mary snapped, "Why on earth wouldn't I?"

"I see," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then stopped walking as they reached a door at the end of the hall, "Please, just through this door."

Mary entered the room, with him following. He held her shoulders and steered her straight to a chair in front of a desk as if she could not walk, and took a seat on the opposite side of her.

"Mary, do you know why you are here?" his face looked thinner in the light of the single lit lamp in the room. Mary was oddly surprised to see something so normal as a quill pen, or a lamp, or a portrait hanging on the wall.

"You are vague, sir," she replied, "Here in this room? Or here at Hades—I mean, Haddock's?"

"Here at Haddock's," the doctor confirmed.

"Yes, I believe I do," Mary cleared her throat, which was not much above a whisper courteous of her lack of strength, "My parents did not approve of me."

"And why would they not approve of you, Mary?" he asked, "You must stop trying to push the blame on anyone else if you want to become well again."

Mary opened her mouth to retort, but he simply plowed on, "I have always said that to become sane, you must do two things. One—realize that you have no one to blame but yourself. And two—recognize the fact that you are indeed a lunatic and therefore want to fix that."

"But I am not a lunatic!" Mary protested, leaning closer across the table.

"You speak far to factually. _You _do not consider yourself a lunatic. But that is certainly not a fact," Dr. Moore informed her, "And seeing as you do not yet consider yourself insane, I see that it certainly puts my job back further."

Mary glared at him.

"Now try to realize, Mary," he spoke slowly, "That you are indeed insane. Ask yourself—would your parents and family _really_ put you in such a place unless it was for your own good?"

Mary looked down at her lap and weighed his question, "Yes, I do believe that my family would put me in such a place for no reason at all," she answered, "And if I had a daughter, even if she was insane I would kill myself before I'd send her to such a place as this."

His jaw clenched together and his face temporarily grew angry, but then he calmed himself at the last minute, "It is only natural that you would feel such hatred towards a place you believe you should not be. But as you attempt to realize that you are indeed a lunatic, try to realize that Haddock's is only trying to help you and your case."

"Sir," Mary breathed, "You do not even know me. How can you honestly say that I am insane?"

"I am a doctor," was his response, "And I will have no more of you denying it. Repeat after me, 'I am a lunatic.' Would that be so hard to say, Mary?"

"I am not a lunatic," she growled.

"Mary!" he said sternly, looking at her in a disciplinary way, "I do not want to use force with you."

"So use it!" Mary yelled, standing up, "I am not scared of you! I will not admit to being insane either, because I am not!"

Dr. Moore rang the bell on his desk, and two nurses rushed in, each one grabbing on of Mary's arms.

"She got violent," he reported to them.

"I did not!" Mary struggled in their grasp, "I only stood up!"

Mary felt her arms being forced through the sleeves of a straightjacket, and then felt the strain on her middle as it was fastened tightly around her beck. Realizing what had happened, she struggled in vain against it, and tried to kick Dr. Moore and both of the nurses. In that, she accidentally lost her footing and fell into the corner of the desk, bloodying her face.

"She is injuring herself now," Dr. Moore stated, pulling her off of the ground, "You'd best get her calmed down."

"I slipped, it was an accident!" Mary told them, but realized too late that no one was listening to her.

The two nurses led her down several flights of stairs before throwing her into a solitary cell. She dragged her feet the whole way and kicked over a few chairs. When they slammed the door to the cell, she leaned her bloody face on the floor and swallowed deeply.

Her body had literally no energy left. Mary wondered if after all that she had been through, she was finally dying.

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Yup. Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**Serena- Hi. Chapter eight.**

**Thinkoutsidethebun07-**** Thanks for reviewing so much, I appreciate it more than words can say.**

**Reven Eid-**** Thanks for reviewing and telling me your opinion of the story. Most def.**

**ANABELLE-**** I do like Mary… most of the time. No one is perfect. But one of the reasons why I like her is because of her asylum experience… if that makes any sense at all. And for your question, well—read to find out.**

**distorted realities-**** thanks again for the great review!**

_Chapter Eight…_

Mary had many complaints. Among others, she was disgusting. She had not bathed in… well, _too long_, lets just leave it at that, shall we? Her skin had an unhealthy gray tint to it, and her hair was matted and tangled. She had lice in her scalp and dirt under her fingernails and creviced into her skin and gown. The gown she wore was the same one she wore when she had left Longbourn—her simple gray one. It was now a darker gray from sleeping in filth for so many weeks.

She smelled plain awful. That's all there was to it. And she was also laying on the ground of a solitary cell and quite possibly dying. Why else was the feeling leaving her arms and legs? Her eyelids fluttered, and her heart began to slow…

No.

_I cannot just die here! I cannot die alone in this place!_ She forced her eyelids back open, and suddenly the feeling was back as her heart returned to normal speed. Later, Mary would always look back on that moment as the one where she had almost died for a few seconds.

And she never knew just how long it was that she lay in that cell. It could have been two days, it could have been four. Either way, hunger gnawed unpleasantly at her stomach, and even worse, thirst parched her throat like nothing she had ever felt before. Her tongue and the inside of her mouth felt as dry as velvet. She could move neither her arms (for her arms were bound by a straightjacket) nor her legs anyhow (for she had no strength to even try.)

She grew so thirsty that she dreamt of fountains of water. She would only awake to find her mouth just as dry as it had been before she had fallen asleep, and then she would run her tongue along the cell floor.

This was it. Mary knew it was quite impossible to live without water. Or perhaps there was hope yet… No. No, there was no hope, thinking otherwise was simply a waste of time and energy. She had a good run—nineteen years. When one thinks on it, nineteen years is a lot longer than many people live to see. Why not consider herself lucky?

And then her heart truly did stop. Mary knew it had too. The feeling was gone in her limbs again, and her eyes fell shut. She could not think. She could do nothing but finally wait for when it would really be over. Each second seemed twice as slow. Did it hurt to die?

Mary heard the doors being flung open. Was it the cell door? Or perhaps the door to the afterlife? She honestly could not tell. She heard voices too. Rough hands grabbed her body.

"Please tell me she ain't dead," a woman's voice moaned in annoyance.

The rough hand felt at her neck, "Dead as a doornail, Nicola, what do ye suppose'n we do wit 'er?" This voice was a man's.

"Well, we can't give 'er to the coroner, now can we?" the woman snapped, "Lettin' a young girl die in the cellar is 'ardly good fer business now, ain't it?"

"I sure do 'ope she ain't got a family to come pokin' 'round 'bout this," the man said gruffly, dropping Mary's limp body back on the ground. She hardly felt it however.

"If they gave a rat's arse, they wouldn't a' sent 'er 'ere, now would they?" was the woman's tart reply, "We just 'ave to get rid o' 'er in secret."

""Ow are ye suppose'n we're goin' to do 'at?" the man wanted to know. Clearly, the woman was the brain behind them both.

"We'll toss 'er in the Thames, why not? Sure, some thrifters migh' pluck 'er back out, but she ain't got nothin' valuable on 'er," Mary now felt the straightjacket being pulled off of her, but still could not find the strength to move or even speak. She was on the boarder of unconsciousness.

Then someone picked her up off of the floor. It must have been the man, Mary realized. She was carried up a flight of stairs and out into the chilly, windy night. The man's arms were hard and muscular and she felt rather uncomfortable in them. She was carried for what seemed to be only a few minutes, but she was never really sure of the exact time it took them both to walk from Haddock's to the bank of the Thames River.

And then Mary was dumped. She felt herself falling, touched only by air for all of about five seconds before she plunged into the coldest water she'd ever touched in her life. It instantly sent her heart back into steady, even beats and caused her to fling her eyelids open.

Indeed, now taking care to note her surroundings, Mary realized that she was bobbing in water up to her chest. Her bare feet touched the muddy bottom. In the dark of night the water looked merely black and murky. She looked up on the bridge from which she must have been tossed and saw it empty—her dumpers must have fled the scene instantly.

Of course, the first thing she did after that was drink the filthy, sewage water. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter, ironically.

Mary noticed two main objects about her situation. One—she was free. According to Haddock's Insane Asylum she was dead and drifting down the Thames. Two—she was stuck in the filthy river, not sure how to climb back out and lost in London without a single penny. Not the most sought-after place to be in, to be sure.

In a clearer mood now that she had drunken some, she decided to walk more downstream and hope that the currents did not become so powerful as to drag her away. As a result, she stayed as close to the edge as possible, where it was shallowest.

She was a good climber. Mary could climb many things from trees to rose-trellises, as the gentle reader likely knows already. So why would an eaten-away-at brick wall be any different? Indeed, the mold had seemed to disintegrate the brick leaving perfect indents for Mary to use during her climb. So she climbed the twelve-foot wall in under thirty seconds and hoisted herself onto the street, soaking wet, but otherwise unharmed. She was cold and shivering and even hungrier than usual, not having seen a bit of food in days.

And then Mary Bennet, the very blood and kin of Elizabeth and Jane Bennet who were currently snug in their beds with clean linen sheets and lavender scented pillows, dreaming innocent dreams, not even _aware _of the fact that such things as the happenings of Mary's life even existed—Mary Bennet ate her supper out of the garbage. It was a few stale bread crusts, but she licked every crumb off of her fingers. No one on the streets looked twice at her. She was just a dirty, starved, filthy, barefoot girl, roaming the streets of London. She would hardly be the only one.

Mary followed the river until she reached the outskirts of town and finally started down a long country road. She was fairly well fed at the moment and did in fact have the strength to make this walk. She walked as the sun rose, and she found her bearings a little easier. _If the sun rises in the east…_

What did she intend to do? Return home to Longbourn and hope that Mrs. Bennet wouldn't simply send her straight back to Haddock's? No, Mary knew she would be back in the asylum before she could even blink if she showed her face at Longbourn. No one there wanted her anyhow. Perhaps she could beg her aunt Philips to take her in and perhaps hire her as a housemaid? No, that would not do either. Her aunt despised the very idea of her, and even if she did hire her that was still too close to Mrs. Bennet… Mary thought more intensely as she walked.

The sudden thought hit her that no one wanted her. No one. _Perhaps if I showed up at Pemberly, I could persuade Lizzy to lend me enough money to go back to London and find a job as a maid there,_ she pondered, _I do hope she had forgotten about how I ruined her ball by splattering Miss Bingley with cake. It is possible—Lizzy never liked Miss Bingley anyhow._

When she realized that no decision would be made soon, she slept along the roadside. Only two more day's walk to Meryton…

.x.X.x.

And two days later, Mary did arrive in Meryton. The past three days had not been particularly a joy. She had eaten whatever berries and nuts she had found in the wilderness, and drank from puddles and the occasional stream. Each step grew harder and harder and somehow her legs felt so heavy she could hardly lift them. Her neck and back ached and all she wanted to do was collapse on the ground.

But by that time, Meryton was in plain view. How could she stop when she was so close? She continued on, step by step. Mary thought of previous versions of herself walking through those same streets, where she had been so ignorant of real life… As she walked through Meryton, people stared. They had never seen a beggar girl in their part of the county, so they could not help it. Mary hardly cared of that fact. She was far too exhausted and far too hungry and far too everything.

As she began to exit the town and continue on to Longbourn, she considered swearing to never act up again. _Well, _she thought, _I could swear and then fail to keep that promise…_ No, Mary had always been caught before. She would simply have to mend her ways. As she thought this, her head began to grow fuzzy from her lack of nutrition and she wobbled on her weak legs a bit.

From what little vision she had left, she saw a tall figure running towards her, and catching her before she fell to the ground. Strong arms held her up, and stroked her cheek as her head lolled about.

"Mary Bennet," someone said, "You brave, brave girl."

And then for the first time ever, she passed out for real. Her dreams mixed with reality, for her reality lately had been about as foggy as a dream. Lizzy and Jane threw snowballs at her, but they turned into oven-warm frosted cupcakes as they hit her. Mary yelled for them to stop and they disappeared into a cloud of smoke. Mrs. Bennet put a cup of tea in front of her because suddenly she was sitting in the kitchen at Longbourn.

"Drink up, Mary, but remember—don't go into the woods today."

Suddenly Mary was walking through a wooded area, the ground white with snow, all of the leaves gone from the naked trees.

"Lizzy, come back!" she screamed.

And then suddenly it all faded away like water slipping between cupped hands. Mary was lying in an unfamiliar bed and staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. As Mary sat up, she realized that she was in an unfamiliar room. On the end table beside the bed, sat an empty bowl, stained brown. Mary guessed that it had once contained broth or tea. The spoon was still lying sloppily across it. As Mary swallowed, she tasted a meaty flavor on her tongue and confirmed her broth inference. But where was she?

She kicked the bed covers back to see that she had been bathed as well and was wearing a clean nightgown, slightly large. The scrapes all down her arms and legs and the back of her neck were all washed out and bandaged. Her feet, however, were still a bloody, oozing mess. _Why, they look more like bloody stumps!_ The gentle reader must not be surprised—how could one walk from London to Meryton _barefoot _and not have the most atrocious-looking feet? Mary swung them both to the ground and stood up, although not altogether without grimacing.

She took a single step, and had to catch herself on the windowsill, for she could not very easily balance on her mangled feet. Then something hit her like swinging fist. As Mary took a deep breath inwards, the air rushed in her nose and down her windpipe to inflate her lungs, and then rushed back out the same way—she realized the air smelled of old-woman-perfume, and… _cat._ Indeed, this was Mrs. Coleman's house!

As she thought of this notion, the door opened, revealing the young housemaid, Hannah and therefore confirming her assessment on her contemporary whereabouts. The girl seemed to be entering the room with the sole purpose to retrieve the bowl and spoon, but was surprised (although not unpleasantly) to see Mary awake, although awkwardly leaned against the wall. Hannah looked at her in a certain way, and picked up the bowl with the spoon.

"Well, you've just defeated the grim reaper, haven't you?" she said, conversationally.

"You didn't expect me to live?" Mary asked. It was odd seeing an actually well fed, well-groomed person after her experience at Haddock's.

"I expected to have those things amputated," Hannah pointed at her feet, "Rather useless now, do you not think?"

"Not as useful as they were once," Mary agreed, looking at what was left of her feet as well, "But it would be worse to have nothing at all, would it not?"

The young girl shrugged and went for the door, "Stay where you are—not that you look about to walk anywhere with those feet, I'll get Missus."

When she returned with Mrs. Coleman, the older woman did not go into total shock as Mary feared she would. She calmly noted her and bade she take a seat back on the bed, for standing was painful to watch. Mary did as directed.

They met each other's eyes, and for the first few seconds nothing was said. Both knew pretty much the whole story and there certainly was not much to discuss between them. Finally, Mrs. Coleman took a seat in a chair by the window and sighed, clearing her throat for speech.

"Miss Bennet—Mary, I have not informed your mother that you are here," her voice was rather small as always and rather out of breath and strained, "Nor will I. Now, I do not mind taking you in—in fact, I feel it was most assuredly the proper course of action for the situation I was faced with when my nephew brought you back."

"James brought me here?" Mary interrupted the woman in a shocked, shrill voice. Why, of course! Why hadn't she bothered wondering how else she could have possibly ended up in Mrs. Coleman's house? She rubbed her forehead, utterly frustrated. But it would still be another day at least before Mary could think at her maximum level again.

"He did. And he was right to. Hannah bathed you and fixed you up, so do not thank me. She even lent you the nightgown, although it is rather large. But in a few months you should be cured of your sickliness."

_I shall get fat,_ Mary decided, _for a few months, anyway. And then I'll loose it and remain normal-sized for the rest of my life._ It sounded like a good plan, too.

But the more she thought, the more fuzzy her thoughts became. Her shoulders sagged, her head sagged, as did her eyelids. Mary blinked to sober herself. How long had she slept before, anyhow? It was most likely quite enough for one day.

"How long ago did James bring me here?" Mary asked, swallowing deeply.

"Only yesterday," her hostess replied, standing up from her seat and fixing a wrinkle in the drapes, before approaching the bed, "Mary, you'd best get more rest, you don't look so good yet."

And she was right—there was no point in arguing the fact that Mary was barely coherent. She dropped her head back against the pillow and attempted to pull the covers back around to her chin, but found that her arms were as limp and useless as ribbons. Mrs. Coleman did it for her, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, gently.

"Sleep now," she ordered, and Mary was quite sure she fell asleep before the woman even left the room.

And this time she did not dream. It was a restful, unmolested, heavy type of slumber. When Mary awoke, she had the feeling that she had been asleep for many hours again. Her eyes had crusted over, and she rubbed them until her vision had improved considerably. Her mouth felt thick and her tongue thicker.

Mary pulled her feet out from under the blankets and examined them. She could not say but thought that they might begin to heal themselves. Already they were beginning to resemble a normal foot more. She could even wiggle her single left big toe.

On the chair in which Mrs. Coleman had been formerly sitting, was a simple, rough gown the color of a burlap sack and the entire essential under things she would need. Mary realized with a pang of courtesy that Hannah must have left some of her own clothes there for her. As she put them on, it was the strangest thing to be bathed and donning clean clothes. She even stood there marveling at the thought of such a thing for a minute, at least.

Mrs. Coleman's guest bedroom was on the second floor and going down that flight of stairs was definitely quite a test for Mary considering the current stipulation of that of her feet. But with aid of the stair railing, she did manage to make it to the ground floor of the house without falling, tumbling down the stairs and breaking herself in half at the bottom landing.

That would have been rather unfortunate.

No, Mary lived through Haddock's and she also lived through walking down a flight of stairs—do not get alarmed. Hannah met her at the bottom, as she happened to walk by with a basket of linens and smiled at her.

"Hungry?"

"A little," Truth be told, Mary was absolutely ravenous, but it wasn't so bad after what she was used to.

"There's breakfast in the pot on the oven," that was all she needed to say. Mary did not even wait to see if she was going to add on to that sentence, but stumbled into the direction in which she assumed was the kitchen. Indeed, the layout of Mrs. Coleman's house was not so very complicated and she found it with no trouble.

As promised, there was a large pot of warm oatmeal, which Mary helped herself to. It tasted as she always imagined the sweetest thing in the world would taste like. Even better than filthy sewage water after being deprived of water for three days. She cleaned two bowls of it. But soon, the spoon began to feel heavy in her hand.

"I sure do hope you are not tiring yourself, Miss Bennet," a very familiar voice said, and she looked up to see James Latimer enter the kitchen, rolling down his shirtsleeves.

Mary found herself matching his usual grin, without even thinking about it, "Not at all, Mr. Latimer, but I do thank you for your concern." She let the spoon fall from her limp fingers. It clattered in the empty bowl.

"And how are you feeling on this fine morning?" he pulled up a chair next to hers in which he sat, lowering his face to her level. Mary saw that his blue eyes had not changed one bit since she had last seen them, so long ago.

"Not dead, thanks to you," she responded, looking away, "I owe you my life."

"Mary Bennet," James sighed, shaking his head, "Is that truly how you begin our first conversation after you return?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't I? And, Mr. Latimer?"

"Yes, Miss Bennet?"

"What is today's date? I seem to have lost track."

"Today is September eighth."

"September?" Mary heard her voice shoot through two whole octaves, "Can you be serious?"

"Would I play that sort of trick on a poor, confused, sick girl?" James asked, smiling in his usual mocking way.

"Yes, you absolutely would," Mary informed him, "But it truly is September?"

"Truly," James promised, "Ask my aunt if you do not believe me. Which, of course that does hurt very much—you do not even trust me that much?"

"Alright," Mary breathed deeply after feeling her body go through such emotion, "It is September. Goodness—that means I've been at Hades for more than a month!"

"Hades?" James repeated, utterly confused at her choice of words.

"I mean Haddock's," she quickly corrected herself, "I've been at Haddock's for more than a month."

"And what, pray, is Haddock's?" he asked, which put her into a fine bluster. Would she have to explain _everything?_

"Haddock's Insane Asylum in London, you know—_where I've been for the past month and a half!_ Or perhaps you haven't noticed!" Mary's voice quivered in anger.

"Don't be ridiculous," James tried to calm her, "Of course I've noticed you were gone, what sort of friend would that make? But do you honestly think I could walk up to the front steps of Longbourn and knock on the door to pleasantly inquire to your mother where she happened to send you, and live to tell the tale?"

"You didn't know what happened to me?" Mary repeated, wondering at how she did not think of this before.

"No," James said again, "Not until now. How could I? And will you grace me with a first-hand account of this Haddock's you speak of?"

"If you wish to hear it," she replied, "But I don't think you need my description—what would you imagine an asylum to be like?"

"Rather horrible," he answered her.

"That's all you need to know," Mary said, "It was rather horrible."

"And how did you escape?"

"I did not. Some idiot thought I was dead and threw me in the river, from which I escaped London and walked here."

"You make such a feat sound exceedingly simple, Miss Bennet."

"I assure you it was nothing of the sort," Mary informed him, "Take one look at either of my feet."

"I have already seen them, do they hurt badly?" James inquired.

"I've seen worse injuries."

And so Mary lived at Mrs. Coleman's for all of about a week. Determined to not become any more of a burden than she was already, she helped Hannah when her strength would allow, but often found she could do nothing more but sit. They were all kind to her. Mrs. Coleman was always pleasant and Hannah, the gentle reader already knows was a very kind, generous girl. James was never anything but his usual, mocking self, but of course, Mary had understood that much about his character as she first met him.

He was even kind himself, a side Mary never knew he had. He helped her walk before her feet completely healed, he would read to her when she found she could no longer hold a book, and other things of the same sort.

Mary felt her strength gradually returning at the same time. She was no longer so close to death, and began quickly putting on more weight, until Hannah's clothes fit her perfectly. She longed to somehow write Kitty or Lydia, but knew not where to address the letter. Was Kitty still at Pemberly? Or had she returned home?

If that was the case, Mary was little more than two miles from her sister! The thought was rather hard to bear. If she sent word to Pemberly or Longbourn, it would likely be fat too suspicious, seeing as Lizzy or Mrs. Bennet might notice from who the letter was written. And then she would be as good as back at Haddock's for good.

_I shall figure something out,_ Mary promised herself. Well, she always had in the past, hadn't she?

_End Chapter_

**Serena- Next chapter less boring. Sorry. Please review.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Title-**** Mary**

**Author-**** 4give4get**

**Rated-**** T**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Mary—she owns me.**

**Serena- Thanks for reading. I can't believe how successful ****Mary**** was.**

_Chapter Nine…_

Mary always planned on leaving Meryton one day or another. And the day she finally realized that she truly must go, was the day when James Latimer received word from his mother in Baltimore, asking him to return home. And after Mrs. Coleman and Hannah had retired to bed, Mary commenced in telling him so.

"And where shall you go?" he wanted to know—no smile decorated his face.

"Back to London," Mary answered, "I will be fine—I always have been."

"And so this is how it ends?" James demanded, "I go back to America and you live in London as a housemaid for the rest of your life?"

"Nothing is set in stone—and why does that matter to you?" Mary countered, placing her hands on her hips.

"Can you honestly ask that?" he stipulated rather angrily, "_Honestly?"_

"I am being perfectly honest, Mr. Latimer, I assure you that," Mary said coldly, turning so she did not face him.

And then he did look truly hurt. He sat down in a chair placed in the sitting room in which they were having this conversation, and rubbed his temples, staring rather dismally at his feet. As Mary looked at him, she actually did feel some sort of remorse for what she had said. And know this, if the gentle reader does not yet—Remorse is not something Mary feels often.

Mary was unfamiliar with feeling remorse, and unfamiliar with apologizing. Usually, she felt no need to, why apologize when she did nothing wrong? But this time it was definitely necessary. She had said something wrong. So she carefully approached him, meticulous not to make sudden movements, lest that make the situation worse yet.

"Are you quite alright?" she asked him softly.

"Mary," he said quietly, "Do you _want _to go to London?"

"Does it matter what I want?" Mary shook her head, "We all have to do things we don't want to, you know."

Thunder rumbled above them. They both glanced at the window, which was spotted with thick raindrops, and the whole sky lighted up in an electric blue as the lightning flashed. Mary realized it must be the last summer storm of the year.

"But, Mary," James grabbed her hand before she could pull it back, and held it in his own. Mary felt her cheeks instantly turn red at the sight of it her own heart sped up, "You don't have to go to London! No, there is a way…"

"And what way is that?" Mary interrupted shrilly, "I must go!"

She did wonder just what was happening. He was calling her by her given name—something he had never done before. He was _touching _her too—holding her hand.

"Mary, you needn't go all the way back to London. No," he swallowed deeply and then brought his gaze up to meet hers, "I love you."

She didn't blink. She didn't do anything, actually. Mary was at a total loss of what to do or say, in fact. Something that did not happen often. She had read of scenes much like this in many novels, and had always question their veracity as she did a Shakespeare play. She never suspected it might happen to her. Finally, after about five seconds of thought, she realized what to do.

Now, our heroine is not as other heroines. Mary Bennet did not believe in love. Perhaps in some cases it is convenient to be with someone, which is how people end up married somehow. But, love? Not at all. In novels, the hero and heroine are in love the second they meet each other's eyes. Mary laughed at the folly of that. And she had always thought that James realized such things did not exist, either.

She explained this to him.

He smiled slightly, and took her other hand as well, "My love for you is not as love is written of in novels! I did not love you the instant I set eyes on you. I thought you an interesting character, but I did not even love you until weeks later."

"I—I…" Mary stuttered, pulling her hands away, slipping her fingers across his flesh, "Excuse me."

She quickly turned on her heel, her braid swinging behind her, and left the room. Outside, the rain was falling down harder than ever, dark spots were made on her gown before it was completely soaked, as was her hair. The air was warm, but the rain was cold, clearing her mind. The wind blew strongly, causing the rain to fall at a slanted angle. Thunder struck again, startling Mary to the very core of her being. Not a second later the lightning struck again, followed by more rumbling thunder. The rain continued to fall in torrents.

She ran down the path and down the street, really running just to feel herself breathing so heavily and to hear her pulse in her temples. James Latimer loved her. It was the main thought running through her head, not to mention, the only. It didn't make sense for James to love her, did it?

The cold drops dripped down her face and off of her nose, like freshwater tears. As she stopped and stood in the center of the street, she tucked her arms around her body to conceal her heat to stop the shivers that were racking her whole body. Her wet hair stuck to her forehead.

Well, why not? Was she incapable of deserving it or something? For most of her life, she'd considered herself unnecessary. If she were suddenly gone, no one would miss her. She'd lived with that notion for nineteen years—the gentle reader must understand that. But she couldn't be redundant if someone loved her. The dark cloudy sky sparked up in a bright bolt of lightning, lighting up the street.

For a fraction of a second, Mary could see the houses and shops on both side of the street, and even make out detail and color. And it was as if something had turned a light on inside of her. Her whole life cleared up, the darkness lifted, just as the lightning did. It was not complicated at all! James Latimer loved her.

"I love him," she whispered, her mouth feeling the words. And suddenly, her thoughts went straight back to the last she saw him—his form sitting in the chair back in Mrs. Coleman's parlor. She felt her eyes go as wide as eggs and she jumped when the thunder sounded. The rain fell harder and harder and began to feel to Mary as if the drops might penetrate her skin.

She turned around and ran back to Mrs. Coleman's but when she opened the door and breathlessly leaned her weight against it so it may close, she saw the parlor was empty. Mary glanced around frantically, but James's tall frame was not there. She felt her heart sink, perhaps she lost him.

"Mary? Is that you?" someone asked, but Mary turned to see that it was not James. Mrs. Coleman dressed in only her nightgown and holding a candle for light, crept her way down the stairs, "Don't be alarmed, child. I was only curious to see who was entering my house at this time of night."

Mary realized that she must have slammed the door behind her, "I am sorry I woke you," she said, "But it is only me."

Mrs. Coleman looked at her closely as she approached her at the front door. Mary was not quite as tall as her, but their size was relatively the same. Mrs. Coleman had blue eyes that examined her like a horse at the market. Mary did not know what the old woman had in her head, causing her to think her so interesting.

"You look troubled," she noted.

"I assure you it is nothing, madam," Mary said calmly.

"Not tired?" she woman asked, leading her down the hall into the kitchen, "Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps?"

Mary decided protesting more would be worth nothing and acquiesced to her by pulling up a stool to the hearth. A mug was placed in her hands, and Mrs. Coleman poked the fire with an iron rod. The steam from the cup warmed her hands and face and the thunder sounded again.

"Mrs. Coleman," Mary began, "Can I ask you of something?"

"Certainly, dear," was her reply, "Although I do not promise to be able to answer you for it well."

"That is just as well," she replied, "I only need a confidante, can you keep a secret?"

"I believe so—or I always have trusted so."

"Well, your nephew and I were speaking earlier," Mary said, staring at the marred reflection on the surface of her dark tea, "And we spoke of his and my leaving both."

"Indeed, his mother does want him back," Mrs. Coleman put in.

"And I plan on leaving for London by then," she added quickly, then continued, "But as I told him of this, he said… he said lot's of things."

"And what did he say, child?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he implied for me to go to Baltimore with him," There. She had said it. Slowly, Mary looked up to see her confidante's reaction to the last statement. Surprisingly to her, she looked rather amused.

"That certainly is something," she agreed, taking a sup from her steaming mug, "Does he really love you, Mary?"

Mary sighed, "That's just it—I don't know. What do I know about love, anyway?"

"At nineteen?" Mrs. Coleman chuckled, "Very little, I'll allow. What did he say exactly?"

"Well," she racked her brain, trying to recall the awkward memory, "He asked me if it was what I wanted to go to London. I said it didn't matter. And then he said I didn't have to go. I was confused, and then he said he loved me."

"And that's it," Mary ended.

"What did you say back after that?" Mrs. Coleman continued her questioning.

"Well—I suppose I left," Mary bit her lip, remembering that as well.

"Ha!" the woman began to laugh at the notion, hardly taking care not to spill her tea, "My poor, poor nephew. I wonder how he's fairing after _that _sort of insult!" She continued into random bubbling laughter.

"I didn't mean to insult him!" Mary cried.

"I'm sure you didn't. Well, is that the whole story?"

She sighed, "No, not quite. I think I might love him too."

"I see," Mrs. Coleman said, quietly, obviously deep in thought, "And how do you recognize love when you claim to know nothing about it?"

Mary took a long drain of her tea, to pass over the moment. It was still rather hot for such a large gulp and the boiling liquid burnt the roof of her mouth and tongue, and scorched her throat and insides as she swallowed. She quickly put the cup down on the hearth's floor surface.

"And is _that _the whole story?" she asked.

"Well, _no_," Mary said again, "I need help. _What if I do love him?"_

"Then you love him," she said curtly, "It's not complicated, Mary."

"So you think I _should _go to Baltimore with him?" Mary could hardly believe what she was hearing, somehow. _America?_

"If it is what you want, why shouldn't you?" Mrs. Coleman said bluntly, "Do you know what I think, Mary?" she did not wait for an answer, but plowed right onward, "I believe that you have been so miserable your whole life, that when you finally see a chance at happiness, you don't even recognize it."

Her lips were parted and she simply stared ahead, "But how do I know?" she begged.

"Well, why do you love him?" Mrs. Coleman asked.

"I love him because…I suppose I don't even know why," Mary considered this.

"That does not sound like a good sign, but really it is," Mrs. Coleman informed her, "Perhaps if you listed off things about his personality it might sound as though you truly do love him, but people change. Nothing is forever."

"I know."

"And I have lived on this earth for seven-and-fifty years, Mary," the woman continued, "I like to believe that I might know a fair amount of it. In my experiences, I have found this much—that which is unquestionable is often most vulnerable."

"I do not understand," Mary said.

"Well, would you consider your love for my nephew unquestionable?"

"Not at all."

"There you are then," Mrs. Coleman finished, "In order to fall in love with someone, you must find them agreeable. In order to _stay _in love with someone, you must know all of their flaws but be able to look past them at the same time."

Mary stared into the fire raging in the hearth, as the flames danced and licked the edges. The thunder and rain continued, but her thoughts raced with the new information Mrs. Coleman had given her. Mary felt like she might burst into tears, as she looked at the old woman's kind face. When Mary first saw her back in June, she never would have guessed that such a scene as that would take place between them. Well, who would have?

And Mary had never had such a conversation with anyone. Certainly not with Mrs. Bennet, who certainly never felt any motherly affection towards her at all past the age of ten years or so. Mary's conversation subsisted of only Kitty and Lydia, who of course, were both younger than her.

Mrs. Coleman patted her back and stood to leave, "Just think on what I have said before you make your decision."

"I will."

Mary watched as the fire consumed the logs within the hearth and listened as the rain continued. She still wore her still-damp gown, and stood for a second only to find a shawl to wrap around her shoulders before she resumed her seat by the heat of the fire. She pondered until her tea grew cold and the fire eventually died out.

.x.X.x.

The very next morning, Mary woke with a horrible cold. She was tired and had a pounding headache. Serves her right for staying up so long in wet clothing. She buried her head under the pillows and resolved never to come out again.

The world was a trivial place. People got hurt and were unkind. Who needed it, anyway? For the most part of the day, Mary simply nursed her physical wounds and her mental anguish, which was much more painful than the former. Physical pain… the kind of pain you can breath through. How insignificant it was!

Mary realized that if the world were the size of an apple in her hand, she would be inclined to squeeze it and crush it until it crumbled into a million pieces. She even imagined doing so.

And one thing did go right. The rain had still not cleared up, and the gray sky continued to drop the windy rain. The storm was lovely. Sweet smelling, wet air drifted in through the half-ajar window and it lightened Mary ever so slightly. She even crawled her pitiful self out of bed to sit by the window and watch the tree branches blow and dance to nature's song.

_I wish I could be one of those leaves and just let the wind carry me around. I could be part of something that beautiful._ But the life of a leaf is not very far from that of a human's. It is born, and reared on the tree from which it was born. After the leaf is full-grown and it's great green color, it will begin to change. Humans change too. It will turn to beautiful shades of yellow and orange or occasionally red, before the wind eventually rips it from everything it ever knew. Life carries a human around as wind does a leaf. Until the wind dies away and the snow comes. And the following generations live their own lives before joining you in the soil.

Mary dressed and went downstairs where she helped Hannah peel the potatoes. She did not see Mrs. Coleman nor James. Mary inquired after their whereabouts.

"Missus must be in her chambers," reasoned Hannah, "And Master Latimer… I know not where he could possibly be."

She nodded, and continued helping in the kitchen, her headache was not getting any less severe. Mary thought she might actually go mad from frustration. She cleaned things in which that did not even need to be cleaned. She would wipe down anything she could get her hands on. Hannah noticed—she raised her eyebrows and decided it better to say nothing.

And after what must have been hours, Mary randomly peaked out the window to finally see the weary shape of James Latimer walking up the pathway in the rain. Mary flung open the door and dashed to meet him, hardly noticing the raindrops. Well, she already had a cold, didn't she? They practically collided, and Mary shyly smiled at him. A smile, which was not returned.

"Where were you this morning?" she asked softly, feeling the effects of being in his presence once again.

"Taking a walk," he said, and looked at her with such a sad look, that Mary wanted to burst into tears for him. It hit her straight at her heart and hurt quite badly.

Mary cleared her throat silently, "Mr. Latimer, you must forgive me—"

"Do not call me that," he begged her, "Give me my name. I would just like to hear you say it once, even if you go to London and I back to America."

The look on his face and the way his blue eyes bore into her, moved her so much, that she reached up to touch his face, but a second later thought better of it and stopped before she actually touched him and leaned her face closer, "James," she whispered.

He slowly closed his eyes, and Mary could hear him breathing as well as herself, "Mary, I beg you, I _implore _you…"

"You need to listen to me," she interrupted him, "It is no use to deny it any more—I love you. I do! I have since you told me off that night from my chamber windows, and—"

And then Mary herself was interrupted. James's large, gentle hands held her shoulders and pulled her to him. His iron embrace was locked around her, and she had never felt more content. Such is the feeling of pure bliss—to stand and just hold the person you love above all else and think of nothing and listen to the cool rain fall. And that is the moment our strong, brave, courageous heroine had finally experienced. And she experienced true happiness itself.

It is true. Mary Bennet's story does not begin so happily and as it does begin, it continues to promptly get worse. But when someone stays strong through it all and manages to live to the part where she finally is happy and content and in all triumph—then (and only then) does she receive the title of heroine.

The first thing Mary did after the moment had ended was suit up for the two-mile walk to Longbourn. She would marry James Latimer and live with him in Baltimore, America. And of course she would need her clothing and books, which unfortunately happened to be sitting in Longbourn.

_Unless Mrs. Bennet got rid of it all, and then in that case, I am walking this far in the rain, sick with a cold and headache just to have her and that bloody Mrs. Hall shriek at me about how I'm unnatural and mad and should be locked up forever._

But Mary braved the journey anyhow. And she even smiled to see the ever-so-familiar surroundings of her childhood home. She had ran and screamed in those very hills she passed. She had climbed those trees, and picked the grandparents of those flowers to use them to decorate her chamber. As she climbed up the front steps, she remembered all of the times she'd spend there, ghosts of herself.

She breathed deeply before she knocked on the door with her left fist. Mary ardently hoped no one would be home. But no, she heard Mrs. Bennet's familiar squawking for someone to open the door, and many rushed footsteps. When the door did swing open, it was Mrs. Hall who stared face to face with Mary and her face instantly turned deathly pale, as if witnessing the appearing of a ghost and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

Mary regarded her coldly, and considered shoving the woman out of the doorway so she might gather her things and leave as quickly as possibly, but figured that could also very possibly make the whole matter worse. Mary rubbed her temples. Would it really not do to shove the woman partially responsible for the month and a half she spent at Haddock's?

Mrs. Bennet flew to the door, and let out a small yelp at the sight of her third daughter standing in the doorway, but was not as Mrs. Hall. Her hand automatically went to her mouth and her eyes went as large as eggs.

"Mary?" she whispered, "You should be in London."

"Should be, perhaps," Mary allowed, inviting herself in, "But alas, I am not. I am come to gather my things only, madam. It shall only be a minute and you shall never have to see or hear from me again."

"But—but," blustered Mrs. Bennet following her up the stairs, "What will you do? You have no where to go and we both know it!"

"Haven't I?" she shot back, looking down at her mother, before running up the stairs all the faster, "You know nothing of my current situation!"

Mrs. Bennet lifted her skirts above her ankles so she might keep up with her and huffed in irritation, "I'll believe _that_," she remarked sourly, "When I see it!"

Mary flung open the door to her chambers to find it mostly untouched. Her clothes still hung in the closet, but many of her books had been cleared from the shelf, and piled on the floor, as if someone had taken their arm and swept the whole of the contents off of said shelf. She pulled her small trunk out from under her bed, and began messily throwing things, in while Mrs. Bennet watched from the doorway, her eyebrows creviced in distaste.

"So you shall go to a city like London and become a scullery maid?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, "That is the only possible situation for you now!"

"Even that would be satisfactory before Haddock's!" Mary retorted, beginning to pick up the books as well, "But no, I shall do nothing of the sort."

"Then you shall die penniless on the streets," she said harshly, "And see if I care!"

Mary closed her trunk after placing the beginning of Alice Strider's story on top and approached the woman; she was so close she could even make out every line on her face. Mrs. Bennet was rather taken back and was simply at a loss of words for a following few seconds.

"I am marrying James Latimer," she spat, "I'm going to America. Do you remember when I said that I would never remember you and Mrs. Hall nor this house with anything like happy memories? And if I had the chance to leave it, I would take it with both hands? Well, I shall!"

Mrs. Bennet smirked, "You consented to marry that American? You must've been quite desperate, I can imagine."

Mary turned to face her bed again and picked up her ebony birthday ribbon with two fingers and tucked it in her pocket very slowly before she spoke again.

"I love him," Mary said simply, grabbing the handle on the trunk and facing her mother one last time, "I'm going to live with him because I love him. Good day, madam."

As she began to walk back down the flight of stairs, Mrs. Bennet followed her down there too, "My own flesh and blood is to marry a brash American by her own will?" her voice shot through two octaves, "You could have had Mr. Ashby, you realize. At least he was English. At least he wasn't so _coarse…"_

And Mary never heard the rest of her speech because she slammed the door and stormed the rest of the way down the garden path, before it was done. She had had enough of that woman for a lifetime.

And gentle Reader—she married him. Before the month of September was over, she was boarding the _Isadora-Rosaire _the ship that would take them both to America. The night before, Mary had sat up in the room at the inn they had rented for the night and penned a careful letter to Kitty, assuming she was still at Pemberly, seeing as Mary had not seen her anywhere at Longbourn.

When she had finished it, she looked over the see James's sleeping figure and smiled, thinking of all of the times ahead of them. Her thoughts went back to the afternoon she had met him in Mrs. Coleman's parlor, wearing her favorite black gown and wishing she were anywhere but there. It was indeed ironic how the woman she disliked the most in the world (Mrs. Bennet) had brought her to the man she would marry.

How ignorant she had been! And Mary realized that she was likely ignorant still. One's knowledge of the world grows with them, and if one refuses to grow, one becomes small and shallow. Just like old leaves must die away some day to be replaced by new ones, one must replace their ideas and thoughts.

And in this story Mary had learned much about the ways of life, but she would always continue to learn more, certainly. And tomorrow she would board the very ship that would take her to a whole new country and a whole new life—because it was the very beginning of a whole new chapter, of which Mary knew would be better than all its predecessors.

_End Chapter_

_End Story_

**Serena- Nine chapters, as promised. But sequels, most def. The next story will be called ****Catherine**** and will be up in a day or two. Read it if you like.**


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